


the seven devils [tom riddle]

by thesehunprint



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Horror, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Folklore, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Possessive Tom Riddle, Post-Movie 2: Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald, Slow Burn, Teenage Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle - Freeform, Tom Riddle's Diary, Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 60
Words: 284,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27717640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesehunprint/pseuds/thesehunprint
Summary: "I would slit your throat before you got past Avada, Riddle."In 1926, Grindelwald is captured for the first time by Newt Scamander, making his followers go into hiding. The Petrov family, an ancient pure-blood eastern European family, is forced to flee to Romania while chased by the Ministry of Magic.  While waiting for Grindlewald's return, the family has their first daughter, Varya Petrov.  Soon after, her parents are killed by Grindleward's enemies. After attending Scholomance, a small magic school hidden in the depths of Transylvania's forests,  for four years, she is called to Hogwarts. Dumbledore has a mission that only she will be capable to do: to stop Tom Riddle from succumbing to his darkest desire. Varya only has one wish: to redeem her parents' mistakes and find her place in the wizarding world. She will do anything to achieve it, even if it means changing the devil's fate.ALREADY COMPLETED ON WATTPAD BY USER THESEHUNPRINT
Relationships: Tom Riddle | Voldemort/Original Female Character(s), Tom Riddle/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	1. preface

**Author's Note:**

> PREFACE
> 
> I do not own Tom Riddle or any other Harry Potter character. I do not own the Harry Potter franchise or world. The only original characters are the Petrov family and any other OC's that I might add along the way. Please be advised that parts of the timeline have been adapted to fit the story. This is an Alternate Universe story, which means that I am at liberty to change what I see fit.  
> Scholomance is a school of magic that does not belong to the Harry Potter universe. Rather than that, it is taken from Romanian folklore. The rules and practices are extremely different, to the extent that most consider it to be outside of the wizarding world. This story incorporates folklore and tales of Eastern Europe. Please keep in mind that while reading this story.
> 
> REVIEW:  
> "To all the people who just clicked on this book, you won't regret it. If for some reason the first few chapters are not enough to lure you in, give it a few more. You will not regret it.  
> The writing is immaculate, and the plot is just- *chefs kiss*  
> This book has me dreaming about it I swear. I have had dreams about this. And the fact that the author updates almost every day makes it a thousand times better. I'm addicted. ADDICTED I SAY AND IT TAKES A LOT FOR ME TO LIKE A STORY. I literally only have 15 stories that I would reread, and I've read a lot. "

“From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were—I have not seen

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring—

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow—I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone—

And all I lov’d— _I_ lov’d alone—

 _Then_ —in my childhood—in the dawn

Of a most stormy life—was drawn

From ev’ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still—

From the torrent, or the fountain—

From the red cliff of the mountain—

From the sun that ’round me roll’d

In its autumn tint of gold—

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass’d me flying by—

From the thunder, and the storm—

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view”—

Alone - Edgar Allen Poe


	2. prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to read this in one go without waiting for updates— this book is already completed on wattpad by user thesehunprint and has a sequel.

**PROLOGUE**

Polished black shoes sounded against the gravel floor, their echo bouncing against the bleak walls of Scholomance Dark Arts Academy. As Varya Petrov paced the crudely lit corridors of the castle, her shadow trailed closely behind, gradually slinking around the edges of her vision. The armors swirled their heads as she moved past them, querying what a student was doing out so late past bedtime.

Her raven hair cascaded behind, catching the moonshine waves that slithered through the curtains. She kept her eyes forward, knowing better than to try to intercept the gazes of the creatures that peeked through the openings. Varya had learned that in her first year, when one of the ten apprentices of her age had sneaked out in the hallways, only to be found decapitated and impaled on one of the school's crosses. While at Scholomance, you do not look through the windows at twilight, when the külmkings wander the forests looking for the next child that they will claw the eyes out of.

"As long as you are inside those walls, you are safe" the Dark Priest had said as they gathered around the body in the morning. "But I cannot speak for whatever may tempt you to step outside."

Scholomance was anything but safe, the students would soon realize. Although only ten apprentices were picked each year, the dark arts that were performed inside the walls were enough to attract the wickedest of creatures. They sauntered the edges of the school's premise, looking for a wandering soul to trick.

Varya stopped in front of the Dark Church's entrance, looking at the big cross that hung upside down on one of the doors. She once wondered if the devil truly had doomed this school with his knowledge, if all magic families were truly descendants of his own as the townfolks said. Why was their practice so different from other schools? Varya did not know much of magic outside of Transylvania and the territory of Wallachia, but her books spoke with disgust of the western society, who had been watered down to nothing but tricks and schemes. No longer did they use talismans, sacrifices, or practiced the language of creatures, they were all chained down by their dainty wands and brooms.

Her small hand knocked against the door, announcing her presence. She opened it slowly, then stepped inside, making sure to close the door behind her. Best not to leave an open way to the strigois that walked at night. The Dark Church stood before her, just as intimidating as it had been on her first day.

The room was only lit by the few chandeliers that hung from the high ceiling, giving her surroundings an eery atmosphere. The rows of tables stood before her, made of dark wood and polished. This had once been a proper church before the Dark Priest took over the castle, chasing away any holy spirit that might have still resided the ruins. The only reminiscence of better times were the few portraits that hung on the cracked walls, the faces of the members of The Dragon Order watching the students with undoubted agony.

Varya walked between the tables towards the main altar, where two males stood facing each other. One of them was unknown to her, but she realized he carried himself with the arrogance of a westerner. His clothes comprised of dark pants that had been carefully stitched, a dress shirt that was the purest white Varya had ever seen, and a brown vest. She noticed his robes and, in one of the pockets, a carefully crafted wand.

"And why would I send her to your tainted school?" the Dark Priest boomed, his loud voice making Varya flinch. "Have you all not taken enough from us? Have you no shame in corrupting the true dark power of our Lord?"

The girl looked over at her teacher as he pointed an accusatory finger at the western man. The Dark Priest wore his ceremonial robes, which made her understand that whoever the wizard before him was, he was of high rank.

The westerner let out a low chuckle, his body shaking with amusement. Varya could not help but part her lips at the blatant display of defiance. Her hands shook as her gaze fell upon her teacher again, waiting for him to strike the wizard as he did with the other children in the school. When the strike did not come, a heaviness that she did not realize she carried drifted away.

"Do you really wish to go against me?" the wand-carrier answered, his voice dripping with nonchalance. Clearly, he was not intimidated by the Dark Priest. "Must I remind you what is to happen if I let a word slip of your true practice, Dalibor? I do not believe the Ministry of Magic would take kindly to your experiments."

Dalibor sneered at the threat, his gray eyebrows almost uniting in fury. His wrinkled face seemed to melt as he moved it, a sign of old age and darkness. He then turned to the young girl, his eyes making her quiver as the hatred bubbled in them. He called for her to come closer and so she did, keeping her eyes to her feet.

"Petrov, I would like to introduce to you the great Albus Dumbledore of Hogwarts." his introduction was filled with sarcasm as he weakly gestured to the westerner. "He is making quite a demand, you see. He thinks that he is beyond the reach of our Lord and wishes for you to negate your power by attending his school."

Varya's eyes snapped upwards as she looked at the face of the stranger that stood before her. At that moment, Albus Dumbledore looked like he glowed of pure light. He was her salvation, he was the one who would free her spirit of the endless torture that was Scholomance. Albus smiled at her, his jovial nature immediately triggering her mistrust. He extended out a hand towards her and took no offense when she only looked at it.

"Varya Petrov" he spoke, her name sounding deformed because of his accent. "I have heard a great deal about your family."

At that, her young eyes filled with fear. Was this a trap? Had they finally come to execute her for her family's betrayal? A sting came to her eyes, one that she knew too well. Varya dug her nails in her palms, holding back this sign of weakness. No, she would not cower in front of them. She straightened her back, defiance taking over her features. Albus looked at the child with a puzzled expression, as he was taken aback by the obvious coldness in her heart. For a moment, he doubted his plan.

"Do not worry, young one. I am not here to reprimand you. I am here to offer you a chance at retribution."

The Dark Priest let out a low growl at that, stepping away from the two with anger. He could not believe that such a presence had stepped foot in his magnificent school. Albus Dumbledore was nothing more than a coward who feared the true calling of power, who would one day get what he deserved. That day was not today, however, as Dalibor made his way out of the church, slamming the door behind him.

Varya analyzed the man that she was left with, carefully considering his words. Her heart swelled at them, a wave of emotion threatening to spill out. Her skin buzzed as if renewed, her veins dilated as her blood began to pump faster.

"How?" her voice came out small, dazed as if she was unsure of what she had heard. Albus reached out for his wand, not missing the obvious flinch in the girl. For a second, her hands froze and her walls circled around her. She did not let her guard down. He took it out slowly, then turned towards one of the wood tables that stood before them. Waving it, a cauldron appeared before them. He made his way towards it, then motioned for her to come and look.

"What do you know of fate, Varya?" he asked as he made another move of his wand.

"That it is a power unlike any other, something that will not budge in the face of aversion," she answered clearly, remembering what one of her teachers had said.

"Not quite," Albus rebutted, looking at her intently. "You see, fate is not stationary. Fate is the consequence of our actions, whether good or bad. It can be changed by the smallest decision. Yesterday, your fate was to serve at this school and hopefully become a weathercaster."

The girl winced at the idea, knowing that she terribly dreaded it. As much as her peers thought it to be an honor, Varya thought she was destined for greater things than riding a dragon around the mountains and bringing rain.

"Today, however, you might be the key to saving the wizarding world" Dumbledore continued, his answer making the girl look at him with confusion. "Recently, I have made a terrible discovery. While investigating a shift in the time vail, I happened to glance into the future. The things I saw were terrible, I must admit."

He then invited her to gaze into the cauldron. The girl put her small hands on the edge, peaking at what was inside. She gasped as she saw destruction, murder, and pain dominate the wizarding land. A ghost-like creature waved its wand towards a small baby, only for a green light to dash towards him. Truly that creature could not be human, could it? But then why did it speak like a wizard and why did it posses a wand? She watched as war took place, resulting in the deaths of hundreds, and wondered if this is what her parents had seen on the front line of Grindlewald's battles. The images stopped and Albus looked at her horrified face.

"As you can see, the future is unforgiving. Nevertheless, it is my hope that with your help, we could stop this." he preached, waving his hand towards what she had witnessed.

"But...how could I ever stop something like that?" she thought out loud, her gaze lost. Although she had been the top of her class, she was no savior. Not only did she not possess the strength to fight a war, but she also did not know if she wanted to be the person to defy fate. If Albus was being truthful with her, then this was what the future held and anyone who dared defies it would pay the price. Nature required balance.

"I believe that you are powerful, Varya. Not only in magic, but also in your heart. You carry an uncontrolled force inside of you, something that requires you to pay back for the wrongdoings of your parents. I am not asking you to fight, but I am asking you to help me prevent this."

"How could I prevent this? Surely you are more trained than I am and yet you come here asking for the help of teenager," she did not want to sound disrespectful, but the idea of her stopping the death of thousands was unthinkable.

"I want you to come back with me, I want you to attend my school," he started and Varya's heart started beating again. "The evilness that you saw in my memory currently walks the halls in the form of a young boy. Tom Riddle. I believe that he is not past redemption, he needs someone who can guide him."

"I do not think that anyone could change the heart of someone so evil" Varya stated, her chin held high as she defended her view. Fate could not be messed with.

"I believe that Tom Riddle is a lost soul. He seeks for someone to understand him, to show him that he is capable of love and friendship. A tragic fate he has had, born under the influence of a love potion and placed in an orphanage shortly after. Many believe that those who find themselves in such a predicament are incapable of emotion, but my research has proven otherwise," Albus paced the room, his gaze falling on the portraits of The Order of Dragon. The past rulers of Wallachia, those who had started the first line of vampires and strigoi. Vlad Țepes looked at him, his pained eyes full of remorse. "You come from a very ancient line of magic, which means that you possess more power than the average wizard, maybe even more so that some of the twenty-eight families of England. Your education has made you knowledgable of the dark arts, which will attract Riddle towards you, and your reputation will make you a mystery."

Varya doubted his words, still unsure of her capabilities. Even so, the promise of escaping Romania and rejoining the wizarding world made her consider it. Redeeming her honor and name, amounting to something more than a weathercaster, and attending a prestigious school made her think of the possibility.

"And if I fail?" she asked, still doubtful.

"We are all doomed," Albus told her as he spun to face her. Her heart dropped. "But then again, are we not doomed already? You stared into the future yourself and saw what will come of us. What is there to lose?"

She pondered on his words for a second, acknowledging his point of view. As much as she was scared of failing, there was truly nothing that she could do to make it worse. She knew that she was the wrong person and failed to understand what made her special, but her selfishness asked her...no...begged her to take Albus up on his offer, to get out of those forest-covered mountains. This was her way out and her soul was weak, she could not pass upon it.

"When do we leave?" the girl asked, hopefulness spilling out with each word.

Albus smiled at her, an all-knowing twinkle in his eyes. He could see the desperation in her, the need to prove herself worthy and leave her current life behind. "Tomorrow morning. We will go to London to get you your necessities. Books, a wand, and proper clothes."

Varya looked down at her attire, making note of the blood-red skirt that was embroidered with traditional sigils of the school, a stark contrast against her black sweater. Truly, her uniform was the most pleasant thing about her school, but she could not care about that for now. Albus had said that she would get a wand. Her first want. Although she did not need one to do magic, her excitement flashed across her face.

"Well then, go pack. There are only a few hours left until dawn and we must leave before anyone else wakes up," he said, his eyes traveling to the door. Varya nodded, thanked him, and ran out of the door, making sure to close it behind her. She could not have her one-way ticket killed by a strigoi tonight.

Once he saw her leave the room, Albus sighed and turned towards the cauldron. With another wave of his wand, the memory continued playing. He watched as Lord Voldemort approached the school and his gaze fell upon a raven-haired teenage girl standing in the front line, her wand raised in a defying manner. Dumbledore watched carefully, just as he had done when he saw it for the first time, and wondered how Varya Petrov had managed to preserve her age and lead the defense.

He truly hoped that he had not made a mistake.


	3. chapter one

CHAPTER ONE

Varya sat on a cold seat in the Bucharest train station, obsidian eyes trained on the panel that read the time her train to London would arrive. Her hair, dark as the night, hung in a loose braid over her right shoulder, stopping above the middle of her ribcage. She was still wearing her uniform, ignoring the August heat. As strangers passed by, they stole quick glances at the ghostly girl that seemed to be in a trance. She had a mystic aura surrounding her as if her skin absorbed every ray of sunshine that hit her flesh. Her legs would not stop trembling; she did not know whether to blame it on excitement or anxiety over what was to come.

Looking to her right, she saw Dumbledore reading an old newspaper. She could see the headline and held back her disgust, seeing the support for the nazi party. She could not understand how the royal family had been so easily influenced by the parliament in supporting such things.

"The muggle world is surely at a difficult point in history," mumbled Dumbledore, folding the newspaper and setting it aside. He leaned forward and looked at the panel. Only ten minutes until they could leave. He had debated using the Floo Network, but he preferred to leave no magic trace, as he feared being followed. Albus could not let his guard down, not until he had brought the girl to Hogwarts.

"What is the school like?" he heard Varya mutter, her gaze still lost in thought.

"I believe you will enjoy it. It is quite the opposite of yours, if I may say so. And Varya..." he said, gaining the girl's full attention. "I must warn you of something. We do not allow dark arts in our school. As a matter of fact, we only teach of its defense."

The girl tilted her head slightly and narrowed her eyes at him. "How can you defend yourself against something you do not understand?".

Albus raised an eyebrow at her demeanor, noticing her authoritative stance. Yes, he thought, she is more similar to him than I thought.

"And besides," she continued, getting up as she saw the train in the distance. "Did you not tell me that it is my knowledge of this subject that will draw Raidden to me?"

"Riddle," he corrected her, amusement taking over his features. "And yes, but you cannot practice it openly. Tom will find out about it himself; I am sure the mere name of your school will make him ponder."

He grabbed his bag, and they walked towards the train, stepping onto the stairs and into one of the compartments. They sat down across from each other, and Albus noticed the small bag the girl carried. The trip to Diagon Alley would be quite long.

"Tell me more about him," said Varya, curious to find more about her task. As far as she knew, he was an orphan that did not have anyone to care for him.

"Tom Riddle is quite brilliant; he is one of our top students and favored by students and teachers alike. He is charming, although it seems to be only a facade, as his true intent is much darker." Varya chewed on this piece of information, understanding the illusion that was Tom Riddle. "He will use his charisma to fool you; you must be aware of that."

"How can a boy fool some of the brightest minds in Hogwarts?" she deadpanned. Indeed, he could not possess that much flair. Albus laughed at that; the girl would not stop surprising him with her honesty.

"Why would they doubt him when he appears to be perfect? It is a tactic; he is strategic. He camouflages himself as the perfect student, and then nobody doubts him. Truly, I would not have thought him capable of such monstrosity had I not seen it with my own eyes."

The train sped up, dashing through the forests that surrounded the capital. Varya looked outside, counting the Strzygas that would look at her hungrily. Demonic creatures they were, full of wrath and bloodlust. Most would have seen it to be a vampire, but Varya had learned better than that. She knew of the weak magic that they harnessed, making it easy to lure victims into the depths of the woods. She once knew a teacher that fell prey to the demonic attraction. It happened during the middle of January; they did not find his body until the snow had melted.

A small sigh left her lips. She had faced beasts her whole life; surely, Hogwarts could not be worse than this? In Romania, the danger came in the form of a dysmorphic creature. In Scotland, it seemed to be a simple boy. At least for now.

"Is he powerful?" she asked, wondering if he was a threat.

"I believe that Riddle is one of the most powerful wizards I have taught, yes."

Silence fell upon them, and Albus let the girl get lost in her thoughts again. Varya thought back to her family, to the pain that they had put her through. The fall of one of the most powerful witch bloodlines, they had said, and it was such a pity. Now, she was a traitor to both sides. To the wizarding world for her family's involvement and to Grindelwald for failing to step into her parent's positions.

She wondered if people at Hogwarts would accept her.

***

Diagon Alley was hidden from the muggle world behind a brick wall. Varya watched stoically as the bricks moved and made way for her to pass but could not help and marvel at what stood after it. The street was alive, wizards of all ages chattering as they made their way in and out of shops. She followed Dumbledore, feeling the excitement hit her at full force. Is this what other wizards experienced?

She spun her head in all directions, trying to memorize every detail of it, and earned more confused glances from those around her. As they stopped in front of a shop that sold wands, her breath stopped. So, this was it? She would finally own a wand.

Varya and Albus Dumbledore stepped inside, the bell on the door chiming as they made their way in. The smell of wood and ash filled her and brought tears of joy to her eyes, even if she did not let a single one fall.

"Ah, Albus! What a pleasure to see you again," a voice filled the room. Varya looked around and spotted a small man making his way from his desk, pushing a few boxes aside. He stopped in front of her and smiled. "And who is this? A customer? Are you not a bit old?".

Varya's cheeks flushed, unsure of what to say, but Albus stepped in for her. "This is Varya; she was taught wandless magic. I have transferred her to Hogwarts and wish for her to have a wand. Could you help with that, Ollivander?".

Ollivander analyzed her, his eyes burning holes, then nodded enthusiastically. He grabbed a ladder from the side and made his way up one of the shelves, holding a few boxes. He muttered to himself, then moved to another frame and grabbed even more. He then made his way to Varya and handed her one of them.

"Redwood and unicorn hair," he announced proudly as Varya took the box. "Quite flexible if you as me, especially for 10 inches."

Varya took it in her hand, ignoring the sweat that she felt from her nervousness. Unsure, she started waving it around, sending a powerful blast that Dumbledore barely avoids. Then, the wand simply exploded in her hand. Terror struck her features as she considered a new possibility: what if she cannot hold a wand? Ollivander did not seem worried, however, as he handed her another box.

"Dragon heartstring and larch wood, surely it will benefit you," he said. Varya took the next wand, and, sure enough, it glowed calmly, announcing a match. Varya smiled, her face muscles tugging harshly at the unknown movement, as she felt her power connect to the wand. Her first wand.

Ollivander seemed pleased, and Albus paid, earning a shy thank you from the girl. At the next stop, they gathered some clothes, and Varya looked at the dull, gray uniform. Albus assured her that once she would be sorted, it would have more color. Then, they reached the bookstore. Varya stepped in, happy to be around the comfort of books. She gazed upon the rows of textbooks, until her eyes caught a title.

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander.

Her world stopped. Frozen in her spot, her breath quickened as she read the name over and over again, a sense of paranoia and dreadfulness filling her to the core. Newt Scamander, one of the people that fought against Grindelwald and her parents. At that moment, she accepted the reality of her situation. Back in Romania, up in the mountains, she was kept away from the public eye, guarded by harsh whispers and threats. Now, as she headed to Hogwarts, she had to face what she had been avoiding for years. And it was terrifying.

With a shaky hand, Varya picked up the book and stacked it with the rest of her textbooks, ignoring the pull at her heart. She wondered then where her loyalties stood, and if she could truly fight alongside those who killed her parents.

As she stepped outside, she looked up at the last sunset of August. Tomorrow, her journey would begin.


	4. chapter two

CHAPTER TWO

When Albus instructed her to walk to the 9 3/4 station at King's Cross, she did not think much of it. Now, standing in front of a wall with a cart and a perplexed look, she thought it might have been an impractical joke. Varya glanced around, spotting a few boys with similar carts approaching. They paid her no mind as they pulled in front of the wall and then, suddenly, started running at full speed towards it. Before Varya could scream in shock, they disappeared without a trace.

The girl continued to stare at it, mouth agape until she pulled herself out of it. She backtracked a little, making sure to align herself with the wall, then ran towards it much as the previous boy had. She did not close her eyes, believing in herself.

Once she was on the other side, she bustled towards the train as the last few passengers boarded, steps flattering as they neared the entrance. Using a balustrade to propel herself upwards, the witch lurched in the corridor, barely moving out of the way of a soaring white owl. Its feathers fluttered through the surroundings, leisurely descending upon her onyx hair, and Varya plucked it out with a simper on her face. There was something oddly melancholic about the moment, a chaotic salute to her future, and desolation tidied into her bones, tasting the marrow sheltered in her spine and having the witch shiver.

Back in Romania, she did not have many close friends, as it was discouraged to depend on anyone except yourself. Nevertheless, she had a sense of familiarity when she was around her classmates, as she had known them for four years.

Thinking back to her first day, Varya could not help but be melancholic. As much as she found the school dreadfully terrifying, it had been her home. The early breakfasts in the Dark Church, the hours spent in the dungeon classes while performing rituals and curses, the time spent studying occult objects in the backyard. Now, on foreign territory, she debated her choice.

"Move out of the way!" a voice enunciated through the bustling corridor, making the witch reemerge from the land of reverie and dash backward. Varya hit the doors of a compartment, then promptly stepped inside to avoid blocking the hallway. She scowled at the passing form, string of curses just barely managing to not fall from her lips, and sighed deeply. There was no point in causing a ruckus on her first day, attracting attention she so desperately did not wish to settle upon her.

"May I help you?" a voice sounded from behind her, and she quickly turned to find a blonde boy sitting in one of the seats, obviously annoyed at the interruption. He did not seem to be doing much, and yet he was clearly bothered by her presence.

Varya gawked at him, scrutinizing his stature. He must have been the same age as her, maybe a year older, with angular eyebrows and a witty expression. If anything, he was charming, although entirely different from the boys at her school, who had a much more intimidating demeanor. The boy stood adequately in one of the train's seats, legs crossed as he looked at her with vexation. There was something adonic about him, as if he had been fragmented from a Greek collection of marvelous statues, with razor-sharp edges to his portrait and suave darkness.

"Are those seats taken?" she queried, monotony in her voice. There was no point in dwelling on small talk or introductions; her task began and ended with Tom Riddle, and any other foe was a mere pawn in an intricate game of chess.

"Yes," he replied, eyes still narrowed at her. "They are." Varya looked at the empty compartment, a scoff leaving her body. The boy raised an eyebrow at her, irritated at the attitude. To his surprise, Varya sat down opposite of him, not even sparing him a glance.

"Did you not hear me? I said they were taken!" he scowled, his timbre cracking with anger. Abraxas Malfoy was not the one to be messed with, especially not when he was already on edge. He had not managed to find any of his friends before the train took off and now, with so many first-years wandering the corridors, he feared he might have snapped and sent a few jinxes their way.

Varya looked up at him, examining his childishness. "And I believe I sat down anyway. Unless your friends are dead and their souls are in this compartment, then I believe I can sit wherever I want."

Abraxas was infuriated by her audacity, wondering who would dare raise a silver tongue against him, going to such extent as to defy a mighty heir. As he glanced at her, he regarded the lack of pigment in her uniform. A striking oddity, for the witch was no first-year, her features carrying a degree of roughness that was not expected of blossoming students. She was considerably frail, with abundant, raven locks falling over her shoulders in slight waves. Her face was sunken in, like a desiccated portrait that belonged in expressionist galleries. She was not unpleasant, far for it, but the way she moved reminded him of lesser creatures, phantoms in the background of the castle.

"Why are you not wearing your house's colors?" he asked, intrigued.

"House colors?" Varya said as she looked down at her clothes, then back up at his. A badge of a snake rested on his robe, and she could make out one word: "Slytherin."

Abraxas scoffed at her cluelessness, understanding the fact that she was a transfer. Still, where could she have come from that they did not have houses? Her accent was thick, a certain edginess hung on each word. Her features seemed harsher, more defined, and her hair was darker than most girls he had seen. He doubted she was from Beauxbatons, as her grace was nearly invisible. Durmstrang maybe?

"Are you a transfer student from Durmstrang?" he questioned her, although her puzzled expression told him he was wrong yet again. "Where are you from, then?"

Varya looked back at him, debating on whether to give an honest answer or not. She could lie and say that she was from Durmstrang, although she had no knowledge about it. But then again, did Dumbledore not say that her origins would be the ones to attract Tom Riddle? As a matter of fact, what if this was Tom Riddle standing right in front of her? He definitely looked like he could attract the attention of others, but she did not find him to be very charismatic.

From Dumbledore's words, she pictured Tom Riddle to be much more of a mystery, and while the boy before her definitely had the aura of a powerful wizard, he lacked the depth that she had expected. No, this was not Tom Riddle.

"Why would I tell you that? I do not even know who you are," her answer was curt, sharp, with the braveness of Eastern witches. Amusement passed over Abraxas' face, infused with the slightest nuance of hautiness, and he dared quirk a nonchalant eyebrow.

"Abraxas Malfoy," he said proudly, looking at her reaction. When she gave none, his eyebrows went down again. "Malfoy? One of the twenty-eight families?".

He scoffed at her lack of response, deeming it to be nothing but a charade and a jest at his authority. Perplexion painted the girl's expression with harsh strokes, and her eyebrows united in a scowl as the wizard grumbled with dissatisfaction. She was entirely lost on the matter of his name and found it baffling that he took such offense to not being recognized. There was no blood hierarchy in the Eastern lands, only power and those too weak to seek it.

"Are you a mudblood, then? How can you not know the name Malfoy?" he asked, making the girl clench her jaw. Her? A mudblood? What a laughing stock he was. She bit her tongue back, not letting her pride reveal her true identity. Although most of her lineage was still a mystery to her, she knew that her parents had once been people of high status.

"Say that I was, how would that be any of your business?" Petrov bit back fiercely, not wanting to put up with wounded egomaniacs on such short notice. The dashing boy stood up like the officer of a battalion, ready to strike against those he deemed to be the enemy, and his rigidness maintained as he twisted one hand around, promptly packing his bags.

"I will not be in the vicinity of such filth," he sneered, exiting the compartment quickly. His judgment surprised her.

Varya stood in her spot, eyes trailing his gracious movements, as if he were a mere swan paddling on a crystal lake, then let her rattled psyche fall into softer patterns. She sat down, not letting her mind linger on the boy's lack of manners, and looked outside the window, skin tingling from anticipation. Hogwarts would peak from the horizon at any moment.  
  
  


***

Once the train came to a stop, Varya followed the students to the carriages. Amazed, she looked at the beautiful creatures that stood before them, emanating prideful darkness that she had not seen in a monster before. They were glorious, majestic even, carrying a certain melancholy around them as they raised their heads towards the night sky.

She jumped on one of the carriages and looked over the lake at the school. Tall towers and turrets rose to the sky, quarreling with the cerulean yodel as they seemingly scratched at clouds with pointed granite-colored rooftops. The stone that comprised the walls was carefully chipped until there was one impressive structure that appeared to be able to withstand time itself. Bridges connected wings between each other in a squared pattern, and in the middle of the four main towers there seemed to be an opening left open with courtyards.

Much to her embarrassment, Varya was sent with the first-years once they arrived at Hogwarts, as she had to be sorted. She stuck out like a thumb amongst them, as she was a good foot taller than most. Nevertheless, as her gaze fell upon Hogwarts, she could not help but gasp.

She had always thought the Scholomance castle to be impressive, the old architecture standing out amongst most buildings in the area, but it was no match for Hogwarts. She started walking forward, pushed by the crowd until she reached the entrance. Once again, she was struck by the appearance of the hallways.

They were properly lit, warm light coming from the candles and falling on to the faces of the excited first-years. The paintings on the walls smiled at them, waving cheerfully as they passed, a complete opposite of the brooding faces that were featured in the Romanian art. As her gaze wandered, it fell upon a window. Panic struck her, and she immediately looked down. Oh, but why were there no blinds? She slowly lifted up her face and looked out the window timidly, surprised to see no creature looking back at her.

 _What a strange feeling_ , she thought to herself. She could not remember the last time she felt safe standing in a school hallway, especially so close to nightfall.

As the students reached the entrance of the Great Hall, Varya noticed the similar-looking tables that stood in four rows. Familiarity fell upon her, and she embraced it, even if the room itself was nothing like the Dark Church. She aimlessly followed some first years and sat at a random table, ignoring the stares that she received.

All the way in the back, there was a table set for the teachers, who looked over the incoming students with pride in their hearts. Varya caught Dumbledore's gaze, whose eyes twinkled with joy as the first-years approached the front of the room. One of the teachers stood up, pulling a small chair to the front and placing an awfully worn hat on it.

" _Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_

 _But don't judge on what you see_ ,

_I'll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat than me."_

Many newcomers took a step back, surprised by the hat being able to speak. Varya's eyes widened as she heard its song, explaining the four Houses.

Gryffindor, a house of pride and chivalry, welcomed those with a sense of adventure and bravery.

Hufflepuff, for the loyal hearts who sought out the good and fair in all, welcomed those who would put in hard work and value justice above all.

Ravenclaw, the brightest minds who thrived intellectually, embraced those who had a need for knowledge and wisdom.

Slytherin, those who had ambition burning in their eyes, and stopped at nothing to achieve their goals, accepted those who were cunning and resourceful.

Varya thought back to the boy she had met on the train, his robes contemptuously showing his house's symbol, and wondered if the darkness that clung to him was that which belonged to the serpent, dripping like poison made of ambition and enchanting cunningness. There has been such a mystifying air to him, entirely alluring and yet a senseless threat of peril.

As the first-years began their sorting, she gazed at the ceiling, cherishing the night-sky fantasy. She had not seen the apollo shimmering blanket of obscurity in years, too frightened to be outside of the castle walls past bedtime. With a sigh, she acknowledged how different this school was, and her heart welcomed the despondency of those she left behind, now mere ghosts of her past. The witch knew that Hogwarts did not carry the wickedness of Scholomance, nor the blasphemous sorcery, and queried what sorcery it would present her with.

A prideful witch that answered to the lull of the dark arts, Varya Petrov was undoubtedly charcoal amongst polished gems, a murky illustration of a mighty witch. She was made of raven plumes and their grieved melody, birthed from the abyss, with heliotrope stones glimmering instead of irises. Orphaned at a young age, she had been exposed to the cruelty of the world.

Varya had grown up in the house of a sweet old lady, who treated her with kindness but did not have much to offer for herself. She had always been grateful, never asking for more, which is why her heart broke when the woman tried to have her burned at stake for witchcraft.

"Petrov Varya"

Her name rang across the hall. A deadly silence fell upon everyone; horrified faces looked at her as she got up and made her way to the front. She looked at the teachers. Even they seemed to carry resentment in their heart. Her eyes fell upon Dumbledore, who nodded as if encouraging her to take another step forward.

Whispers started filling the hall, hushed voices filling her ears—a harmony of harmful thoughts and swirls of antagonizing voices. The sixteen-year-old witch took in a deep breath, anticipating the cruelty of the words that they would throw at her, and straightened her back. To bow her head was to dishonor the name of her parents. That she would never do.

"Traitor."

"Did her parents not die?"

"Maybe she should have died too."

"SILENCE!" Dumbledore's voice echoed in the room, the whispers suddenly stopping. Varya looked at her feet, trying to gather up the courage to look back at the crowd. Now, with her back turned, she felt more vulnerable than ever. She wondered, then, if coming here had truly been a good choice.

Digging her nails in her palms once again, she headed to the chair, her steps ricochetting off of stone walls. The salon fell in a hush, eyes trailing her every movement as if she would spew poison at any student in her proximity. Obsidian locks clung around her figure, making her appear smaller than common as she took to the front of the room. Her gaze swayed around the chamber, locking on a familiar face that hardened at the sight of her.

Abraxas Malfoy looked at Varya, shock written all over his face. _Of course_ , he thought, _why could I not tell that she was from the eastern side_? Even so, he doubted he could have figured out her identity. He, like multiple others, had thought that the Petrov line had died fighting alongside Grindelwald.

He hummed to himself in appreciation, welcoming the unbalance that this new student brought. As he looked around the table, he could see the uneasiness on everyone's face. Some resented her association with the dark wizard, whereas others laughed at her, hiding in the dark for all those years.

Varya sat down on the chair as one of the teachers placed the Sorting Hat upon her head. Her analysis over the room persisted, and she saw it in their eyes that they wished for her to flinch, to bow her head, and accept the label they had stuck to her name. Nevertheless, that was not something she could do, and so the witch maintained her posture as the Hat began its chatter.

_"Oh, well, is this not a surprise. The end of the Petrov line, right here in the heart of the wizarding world. Who would have thought?"_

"Certainly not me," Varya mumbled, keeping her voice as low as possible. Even so, it felt as if she was shouting in the silenced room.

_"Ah...so many possibilities," the hat mustered. "The intellect of a Ravenclaw, that is certain. You hold vast knowledge that many do not know. It would be quite a wonderful feat. Or perhaps...perhaps you would fit better into Slytherin? The need for vengeance, for redemption, it fuels your ambition, unlike anything else. You want to prove yourself, that is certain. And the darkness that you hold is not to be brushed aside."_

Varya stayed silent, unsure of what to answer.

"SLYTHERIN!"

Varya stood up, looking at the green table as confused faces glanced at each other. Eventually, they started clapping as she made her way down towards them, still unsure of what their reaction ought to be. The newest Slytherin sat down at the end of the table, across from a redheaded girl that seemed to watch her every move. _Well then_.

One of the professors stood up then, clearing his voice as he spoke, "Welcome back, students! As some of you know, I am headmaster Armando Dippet." His blue and bronze robes ruffled as he took a step forward to talk to the students. "As you may have already figured, this year, we have a transfer from Scholomance, a small school of magic in Southeastern Europe."

Varya scoffed at his presentation, noticing the fact that he did not mention the full name of her school, Scholomance Academy of Dark Arts. One of the boys in front of her raised his head, a disinterested look on his face until he noticed who the sound had come from.

Tom Riddle looked at Varya Petrov, curiosity evident on his features. He tried to keep himself under control, his body leaned over the table in a casual manner, but his thoughts would not stop swirling. He did not know much about her bloodline, but he could tell that her presence irked people. And he wondered why.

 _Curious_ , he thought to himself, crossing his arms and tilting his head. How could a girl get this kind of reaction from so many students? It was not just displeasure; he could tell some of them feared her. But what for?

Feeling eyes on her, Varya looked back at the boy. Her breath left her as she looked at his gorgeous appearance. His black hair fell in short curls, a strong contender against her raven color. His face had the structure of a northern man, strong features falling into place seamlessly. His eyes, ever so calculating, were of a marine blue.

He gazed at her as if trying to figure her out, then offered a small smile before going back to writing in his notebook. She could tell, however, that it was faked. Varya let the breath that she was holding out, realizing what had just happened.

She had just met Tom Riddle.


	5. chapter three

CHAPTER THREE

The Slytherin dorms glowed green, the lake shining through the windows. Varya stared at the creatures that swam in the deep water, their bodies coming so close to the window that she had to hold her breath. The fire crackled behind her, its sparks dancing around the room. The soft smell of burned wood triggered unwanted memories.

She shivered, pushing back the thought. No, she had left that place. There was no need to dwell in the past, but how could she not? Hogwarts reminded her of everything she had been deprived of. She reached into her robes' pockets, pulling out her wand and twirling it in her hands. Her finger skimmed the edge, testing the rough feeling of the wood.

Her mind drifted to what had happened earlier, and a soft whimper went past her lips. After realizing the boy standing in front of her was her target, Tom Riddle, they were escorted to their chambers, instructed to wait for their class schedule. As they made their way down the halls, she watched him carry himself with an incredible amount of elegance. Every smile and every word were so meticulously calculated that Varya felt her bile rising to her throat.

Growing up around darkness, the Petrov descendant knew all of its forms and tricks, and Tom Riddle was filled with it. She recognized it in the small eyebrow raise when he saw her looking at him, in the way his chest slightly went down as if letting a scoff barely escape past his lips. The worst of all, however, were his eyes. They turned a midnight blue as he observed her, questions swimming in their depth.

They did not speak, and Varya tried her best not to dwell on his charming appearance. How could such a beautiful face morph in that of terror and evilness? When Dumbledore told her of Tom Riddle, she did not know what to expect, but it definitely was not a lanky almost seventeen-year-old boy with a Veela descendant's face. There was remarkable beauty in the curves of his profile, as if he were a figment of Oscar Wilde's imagination, a perturbing mirage of what could have been a faultless being. 

Of course, she supposed it played to her advantage. Many creatures that lurked the Romanian woods would often take the form of a beautiful human, luring their prey and making them feel safe. There was such deceit in beauty, a sinful call to those of weak mind.

The door of the chamber opened slightly, a redheaded girl making her way past the threshold. She stopped in her tracks, her brown eyes falling on the other girl that was looking out the windows in wonder. For a second, she debated on her thoughts on Varya Petrov, on the enigma that she was.

With most wizarding families, there was a clear trend in their beliefs. Most pureblood families valued their genetic family tree, found themselves superior to muggles, and thought that Grindelwald's fanaticism was valuable. Although they did not necessarily support him outright, it was a known fact, especially amongst Slytherins. But what of Varya? Why was she hidden for all those years, leading the Dark Wizard to believe that one of his most devoted bloodlines had perished in the battle? There was an oddity in that thought, pieces of an intricate puzzle that mushed together to form a distorted image.

The girl cleared her throat, making Varya turn around. The Eastern witch recognized her from the sorting, as her eyes went to her delicate frame. She was made of scarlet threads, wove by the blossoming cherry trees of spring, with wine locks contouring bewitching feature. A girl made of siren songs, one that would have had sonatas written about her unmistakable grace if she had been born centuries ago. There was fiery defiance in her, crafted from burning flames of the underworld, and honeyed irises lacquered over with astonishment.

"Hello," said Varya, unsure how to start a conversation, "I suppose we are roommates."

The girl nodded, making a decision on the spot. Better befriend those you cannot understand than have them surprise you with a knife in the back. "I suppose so. Elladora Selwyn is the name, but most people use Ella".

She set her wand on one of the nightstands beside her bed. She gestured to the furthest bed towards the right, "That one is yours. The one on the left belongs to Ivy Trouche, although she will not be here much. Her boyfriend found a way to sneak her past the guards on the stairs. Lucky her, I suppose," murmured Elladora, thinking of her roommate's relationship.

"I see," Varya drew on, sitting on her bed. She relished in the soft mattress, a newfound appreciation for sleep making its way to her mind. "They said we would get our schedules tomorrow."

"Yes, at breakfast. But I can already tell you a few of your classes," Elladora said as she handed Varya a fifth-year class list. "And I suppose by the books standing on your desk that you are also taking Care of Magical Creatures and Study of Ancient Runes. Interesting choice, could not be mine, though."

"What are you taking?"

"Divination and Arithmancy, my family has had Seers before. I guess it's a demand," she shrugged.

Her words did not linger in the room, not even when darkness crawled through closed curtains, and somnolence weighed down on Varya's eyelashes, and she fell asleep to the sloshing sounds of the Black Lake clashing with the outer walls of the Slytherin dorms—her new residence. 

***  
  


Her first class the next day was Defense Against the Dark Arts, a course which she dreaded. Elladora had told her that the teacher, Galatea Merrythought, would often assign duelings on the first day of class so that she could assess the students' level.

As they made their way to the room, Varya noticed that the two houses that were present were Slytherins and Gryffindors. After witnessing the room's palpable tension, she turned towards Elladora, a questioning look in her eyes.

"Ah, Gryffindors," Ella frowned, casting a glance at the rowdy mess of red and golden. "We do not get along with them. They are a sack of arrogant and reckless creatures; I sometimes wonder if they all share one brain cell between the likes of them. Otherwise, I cannot explain the lack of self-awareness."

Watching her roommate's face wrinkle in disgust made Varya let out a laugh. "I do not know much about Hogwarts, to be fair," she admitted.

"You should visit the library, then. I believe reading _Hogwarts: A History_ would help your mind rest."

Varya made a note of it and then followed Elladora as she sat at a desk near the front. As she put her books on the table, she noticed platinum hair. Abraxas Malfoy was eagerly chatting with his deskmate, explaining what his family had been up to during the summer.

"Well, I went back to visit my family in France at their manor," his friend admitted, taking out a quill and placing it near his parchment.

"Rosier, you should really consider talking to your family about us visiting for Christmas break, I believe Tom wants us there to -"

The teacher walked inside the room, much to Varya's frustration - could she not have waited for a few more, so that Varya could hear or Riddle's plans? Speaking of Tom, her eyes sauntered across the room until they settled on a black-haired boy in the front row. _Of course_ , she narrowed her eyes; he _is a teacher's pet._

Merrythought halted at the front of the class and then sent all students and their chairs to the side with a wave of her wand. Varya gripped her seat as the magic forcefully pulled her back. She watched as the tables rearranged themselves to form a platform in the center of the class.

"Welcome back, students," her voice sounded in the room, making Varya straighten her back. The professor walked towards the center of the chamber, looking at the students, "I will save you from hearing a welcome speech. I believe that you are well acquainted with this class. Today, I want to see you duel using the spells that you have been thought until now."

Varya followed the rest of her classmates as they sat up and approached the center, waiting to be paired. "Malfoy, you can go with Riddle. Selwyn, pair up with Weasley." the teacher kept going on, as Varya watched Tom and Abraxas casually greet each other. So they were friends? "Petrov...you will be with Lestrange today."

Varya eyed the boy that now stood in front of her, regarding her with nothing but an arrogant smirk. "Icarus Lestrange," he said, tilting his head with mock courtesy. The girl drew in a deep breath, already annoyed at the boy's demeanor.  
  
  


When it was their turn to take the stage, Varya could not help but feel the sinking sensation of nervousness overtake her. Albus Dumbledore's warning of their prohibition on dark magic was a hot iron on her memories, and she pondered if her defensive spells were enough to have her duel. She knew little of the required movements, although she presumed them to be similar to those of her hands. As Icarus Lestrange let wicked eyes fall upon her, the witch felt her guts twist with apprehension, and they raised their wands.

The professor raised her hand, "Three, two...".

Icarus sent out a jinx towards her, yelling out " _Impedimenta,"_ which she barely managed to avoid by jumping to the side. She briefly looked back at the Gryffindor that was now being helped off the floor, having been in the spell's way. To her surprise, Icarus approached her and yelled out another attack, as if he were machinery of war, his mind cogs twisting and turning with each spell " _Locomotor."_

A chair flew out as Varya ducked her head, throwing herself to the ground. She tried using her wand to cast a shield, but her panic made her movement sloppy. She quickly got back to her feet, looking at Lestrange, who has mischief dancing in his eyes.

She realized that he was the type to tease and trick and play with his opponent before truly doing any damage. He was not trying to knock her out, but instead, get her moving and raise her stress level. And he had succeeded.

With a huff, Varya put her wand back into her pocket. She had to rely on what she already knew, she concluded; otherwise, she stood no chance in front of the wizard. Icarus raised an eyebrow at her and said sarcastically, "Do you surrender already? Have those years spent in hiding made you that much of a coward? Perhaps you should join the first years, although even they have more spirit than you."

"Not quite," she barked back, angered by his claim. She sent a stinging hex his way with a wave of the hand, which Icarus barely managed to block. Shock struck his features as she watched the girl cover ground faster and faster, sending out multiple spells his way. His shield was barely keeping up. The class watched, absorbed by the skilled use of magic, and even the professor found herself impressed. Icarus sent a panicked look towards Malfoy, the other boy nodded knowingly, covering his wand as he sent another knocking spell towards Varya, making it seem as if she had simply tripped on her legs.

Taking her momentary confusion as an opportunity, the boy waved his wand again. " _Diffindo,"_ he yelled towards the chandelier, seizing it and letting it fall towards the girl. Varya looked up, casting the _Reducto_ spell and sending the chandelier into bits all over the room, as multiple students launched protective shields. Then, she pointed her hand at Icarus, who was letting his shield fall and muttered " _Stupefy"_ and watched as he stopped moving, frozen by her spell. Then, with a final wave of her hand, she knocked him off the table, sending him flying to the ground.

The adrenaline left her body, her breath finally slowing down as she stood up to her peers' applause. "Such an interesting duel!" said Merrythoguht, obviously excited by the advanced use of magic. "Ten points to Slytherin!".

Varya made a step to get off of the table, but a hand flew out to her, reaching out as an invite to help her down. She looked in the deep eyes of Tom Riddle, surprised by his actions. He smiled at her, but it did not quite reach his eyes. Her eyes flickered to his hand. "I am alright, thank you," she hopped off the table, missing the slight spark of annoyance in the boy's face.

"Quite a show," he said, and Varya was taken aback by his voice. "And here I was, thinking that I was the only student capable of wandless spells."

There was passivity in his voice, the striking assurance of a man who discerned himself to be a god amongst commoners, as if he had witnessed two children toying with their first spells. His eyes flickered with haughtiness, and it struck a chord in the prideful witch, who knew that she possessed knowledge that the dark wizard was ravenous for.

"I suppose this is the advantage of training at an academy for dark arts," she said nonchalantly, a jab at his audacity, and a subtle brag that would have his thought linger on her. The change in his demeanor was unmistakable; as if lightning of epiphany had struck his psyche, making the gears turn voraciously until his only focus could be the knowledge rooted deeply in her cerebrum. 

"Dark arts?" he probed, following her to the corner of the classroom. "That is fascinating."

"Yes, eastern European magic is quite different." she mused, sounding as if she was in deep thought. The boy watched her, analyzing every slight move. Under his eyes, she felt vulnerable. Then, a slight pain knocked at her temples, as someone tried to enter her mind. She quickly strengthened the wall around her mind. _Legilimency,_ she shockingly concluded.

Once again, annoyance covered Tom's features, like the flicker of a short fuse, yet he stomped it out with a charming grin that would have appeared marvelous to those who had not seen his future, yet was nothing but crazed to the witch. He cradled his weaponized intellect and alluring appearance, placing them on display for any wandering eye that settled on him, and destroying their suspicions. It was comical, almost, to have the knowledge of what he would become deeply sewn into her memories, yet stare in the face of a seraph facade, a man encompassed by an optical illusion of holiness. Light had the malleable quality of deceiving the human brain, and Riddle utilized the glimmer of aquatic eyes to his best capability.

"My name is Tom Riddle," he continued, his charm almost fooling Varya as he moved around her graciously, made of feathers and grace. 

"Varya-" she started.

"Petrov," he finished, "Yes, I know. I am sure everyone does. Well, Varya, perhaps you should tell me more about your school sometime."

Varya fought back the urge to roll her eyes at his apparent flirtatious nature, knowing too well that it was only a form of manipulation. The bell rang, signaling the end of the class. "Or, perhaps, I should not," she said, sweet sarcasm dripping from her tone.

The sting was almost palpable, and even as she gathered her textbooks and stuffed them in a leathered pouch half an hour later, she felt Tom Riddle's sheer wrath like a slap of danger on her neck. Sometimes, waking up a sleeping dragon was the only way to have it reveal its cave of golden theft.


	6. chapter four

CHAPTER FOUR

The library creaked, the sonority of pages reverberating through the chamber. A few students snickered, hiding behind the rows of books in secrecy, sharing forbidden kisses, or being mischievous. Some were deep in their studies, their quills scratching the parchments as they rapidly wrote down their jumbled thoughts, a desperate attempt to retain information that they stuffed like dirt in their ears, eyes unfocused due to maladaptive daydreaming.

Varya stood in one of the obscure corners, sunken face and glazed eyes, features more elfish than human, and flipped page after page, her psyche a sponge to anything she found remotely interesting. Hogwarts: a History, was cradled between her long fingers, a volume that exposed her to the truest origins of her academy. It was easy to dissect the paragraphs as she jotted down notes on everything, as if she were devising a plan to conquer every hallway and infest it with her rotten magic. Her eyes skimmed a fragment of interest, again and again, fascination dragging rocked edges on her mental, and she submerged herself in a tale of time.

_"The legend of the Chamber of Secrets arises from Slytherin's departure and has been the subject of debate for many centuries. The legend itself concerns a chamber supposedly constructed by Slytherin deep beneath the school that he kept a secret from the other founders and sealed so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The story goes that when Slytherin's true heir returns, they alone will be able to open the Chamber of Secrets and release the horror within - a horror that will purge the school of those whom Slytherin believed were unworthy of studying magic. After many extensive searches of Hogwarts over the past nine hundred and fifty years, most reputable scholars agree that the existence of the Chamber of Secrets is a fanciful tale concocted by Slytherin's supporters."_

Varya found her blood fall into a strained motion, fingers grasping aimless pages as she repeated the paragraph in her head. As a pureblood, she had always understood the prestige of passing down the magical power to her descendants, but she had never thought that some would go to such an extent to preserve it. She then wondered to Malfoy's words, when he had called her a mudblood. Prejudiced seemed to flower in the western garden of power hierarchies, veins of history, and hatred towards the muggles' crimes against sorcerers smothering any camaraderie that might have otherwise formed.

A chair was pulled across from her, and she watched Tom Riddle sit down, glancing at her briefly. His hair was neatly brushed, making his strong jawline stand out even more. His prefect badge rested neatly on his robe, catching the light of the nearby lanterns. His appearance was neat, stoic, almost robotic. His chin, as always, was held high, an obvious sign of his confidence.

He greeted her briefly, his eyes darting to the book that was open on the table and skimming the first paragraph. He bit his cheek as he noticed the subject that the girl was reading, then his stare fell on her.

Her black hair was held in a high ponytail, pulling at her features. High cheekbones were coated with the slightest blush, and he almost laughed at her defiant dark eyes. Obviously annoyed at being intruded, she shut the book, slightly pushing it to the side.

For a moment, he debated trying to penetrate her psyche again, strike with nails of invasion until the barriers of her privacy stumbled. What a curious character, a skilled witch that was refined in the dark arts, just so happened to transfer to Hogwarts. Moreover, now, when he was more interested in opening the Chamber of Secrets, there she was, reading on it in secrecy. His suspicion rose, and he thought back to the faithful summer before the year started, at how he killed his father with cold blood. Still, paranoia was his fatal flaw, and he wondered if she could be an investigator sent by the Ministry. No, there was no chance that his plan was flawed. Their deaths could not be traced back to him. 

In silence, she pulled out her Ancient Runes homework, starting to translate her assignment. Tom watched her struggle, then pulled out a scroll, handing it over to her without saying a word. Varya looked up, surprised, then cautiously took it. She opened it to find a translation guide for the runes that they had studied in class. Instinct kicked in like a turning engine, and the witch almost let questions tumble past her lips, only to throw him one look and understand—Riddle was a walking charade, a nefarious being that promenaded through ancient walls with a crafted mask of deceit covering darkened features. It was a routine for him, perhaps, to appear as a well-mannered boy, only to gain the trust of his victims.

Over the past week, she noticed that she shared quite a few classes with Tom, but tried to pay no mind to it. "Let him come to you," Dumbledore had told her. She thought it to be a good strategy, not wanting to seem too interested in Riddle.

"Thank you," she said, knowing all too well that he was trying to get her to open up so that he could ask about her school. Varya debated refusing his help, but she did not want to push him away either, and truth be told, she needed the help.

Tom observed as she went back to her homework, pulling his hands and clasping them on the table in front of him. "How has your first week been?" he began, "As a prefect, it is my duty to ensure that you are welcomed accordingly."

What a stupid excuse. Varya knew very well that Riddle could care less about how she adapted. "Well, after receiving a few death threats on the first day, I guess things have died down," she muttered bitterly.

Over the last few days, she had managed to talk to other people besides Elladora, as she finally met her other roommate, Ivy, and her boyfriend, Alphard Black. They were quite a pair, she had to admit, as they always clung to each other.

Tom hummed, then answered, "How is it compared to your old school?". Varya almost scoffed, then decided to throw him a bone. She had to play his game; otherwise, he would grow suspicious at her resistance. She assumed that Tom was used to charming girls off of their feet and, although bitterly, she had to admit that had she not known of his true nature, she would have been one of them.

"Well, no monsters are roaming the corridors at night, I suppose," she said, without adding the _besides you_ that she wanted. "And the curriculum is very different. We were discouraged from using wands; they thought it was a sign of weakness. No wizard should be tied to any person or object."

"They?" Tom invited her to elaborate.

"The Dark Priest, I could say he was our headmaster, and other professors that taught at the school. They believed magic came from Hell, and that the Devil had blessed us with power to fight against the holy."

Tom tried to remain composed, but his mind began to spin at the thought of such a school. How could this girl have been so lucky to attend it, and yet still leave willingly? Oh, what he would give to have that education.

"So what did they teach you? Nobody seemed to know much about your school," Varya gazed at him, excitement a burning sensation in her bloodstream, yet she maintained the ice-inducing stare that had made younger students part for her in the hallways. Terrible, awful, Easter witch, and her darkened magic that had made her emotions rot away until her expression was a blank canvas for the eye to interpret. 

"They taught us dark arts, curses, and objects. Mostly about the creatures that surrounded our school - very different from those we study here - and how to communicate to them or other animals," she recalled, thinking of her curriculum. "Of course, we also had to learn how to tame dragons. And then, the top student of his class would become a weathercaster at graduation. He would fly the dragon over the mountains, bringing the rain and guarding the forest."

"Animals?" There was a subtle nuance of perplexion in his voice, or alertness, she was not entirely sure.

"Understanding wolves, birds, snakes," she said casually, wondering at his sudden interest.

Tom stopped suddenly, and she saw his mask crack briefly, anger peeking through it. "You are a Parslemouth?" he said, trying to compose himself. Is that why she had been looking at the Chamber Of Secrets? No, no. He was the heir; he was the one that would carry out the legacy and Slytherin's purpose. Tom could not let this Slavic girl interrupt his plans.

"Not exactly," she said, confused at how he suddenly relaxed when she said it. "We do not _talk_ to them; we communicate through mutual understanding and bonding. They are often our step-stone to fauna, and we draw powers from the soil, from everything underneath. Twisted, dark, nefarious. We claim everything to be the Devil's creation."

"Interesting," his eyes flickered to the windows, noticing the sun setting down quickly. Soon, he will have to begin patrolling."I understand that you have a lack of skills when it comes to your wand; perhaps I could help you with that."

Varya clicked her tongue; how could he pretend to be nice? Was it not making him rot on the inside, until his skin turned jaundiced, his lips a nuance of sapphire, and his mind a mush of lies and jumbled truths? The girl thought it would have been exhausting to continue playing a game he wanted nor needed.

"In exchange for?" she asked, curious how he would react to her seeing through his display. To her surprise, the boy only smiled as he leaned forward, lowering the distance between themselves. He tilted his head, looking at her in an almost sensual way.

"I am just curious about magic outside of England; I cannot help it. I want to see what students are taught," he said in a low voice, maintaining eye contact. Varya looked at him, raising her chin confidently, meeting his gaze with just as much power.

"Very well, Tom."

***

Her heart beat fast as she marched down the corridor to Albus Dumbledore's office. She could feel her cheeks flush an anemone color, and her hand went up to feel their heat. She thanked Merlin for giving her strength to not break under Riddle's eyes, but here, in the dark corridor, she let herself feel the blood rush. There was a lunatic thread in his stare, an instability she recognized promptly, and her skin crawled with apprehension, a common reaction for the body in perilous situations.

He was good; she had to admit. He knew what to say. He knew how to use his strength to get her to squirm. She felt terrible that such talent and beauty would be lost, but it was a fair trade-off—his beauty and charm for undeniable power. The balance must always be maintained.

She grabbed the ends of her robe sleeves, gripping at them. Maybe he could still change, maybe there was still a chance for him to not succumb to his dark desire. His aura was certainly tainted; she saw it as early as the first day, but then again, so was hers. Furthermore, she could never commit such atrocities, _right_?

Varya had always seen herself as a strong individual, not letting her school break her soul. Although her morality was ambiguous, she knew she could never harm someone just for the thrill of it. No, she was selfish, that was true, perhaps even detached from others, but she was not evil.

Once again, she reminded herself why she was here: to clear her name, to prove to the world that she did not fear Grindelwald or the Ministry of Magic. She hoped that, by the time of her graduation, she could pursue a career, perhaps as a healer, as she had always loved potions and herbs.

Dumbledore looked at Petrov as she walked inside his office, noticing the slight fight in her eyes. He stood at his desk and invited her to take a seat across from him. He set the essays that he had been grading aside, then placed his quill back in the inkpot.

His office was of modest size, the fire giving it a warm glow. The shelves were filled with books, as they stood color-coded, their leather bounds facing the outside. Two portraits hung above the fireplace, looking at the girl curiously.

"How is your task going?" he asked her, offering her some candy. Varya refused, almost crinkling her face as she thought of the lemon sourness.

"You were right; he is inquisitive about what I know. I suppose he wants to drain my mind of knowledge; he even tried to read it," she said.

"And did he succeed?" Albus said, worried. How had he not thought that Riddle would be skilled in Legilimency?

"He did not, I am trained in Occlumency, but I do not know if I will be able always to keep my guard up," she admitted. However, her skills let her guard her thoughts when alert; she had always had trouble hiding it when exhausted or intoxicated.

"We will train you better, then. You must understand how important secrecy is. Riddle might well already be suspicious, and I believe he will see the similarities between the two of you."

"Similarities?" she asked, disgusted at the thought that she could have anything in common with Tom Riddle.

"Yes, as I have told you before, he is also an orphan. Although raised differently, you both have struggled, which means that you can understand him better than most. And I believe he will see your vulnerabilities too," said Albus, getting up from his desk and walking towards the fire. "You both have knowledge of uncanny magic, and he will desire more. You understand darkness just as well as he does. You have experienced it. Do you understand now why you could be the one to break him?"

 _Not really_ , Varya thought. Sure, their childhood might have been similar, but Varya was not a sociopath. And yes, she understood darkness, which made her beware of it, but Tom Riddle fully intended to embrace it.

"You can show him a different possibility, another side of the same coin," Albus explained, understanding finally hitting Varya. "But be careful, Varya, because he can do the same thing to you."


	7. chapter five

CHAPTER FIVE

Professor Horace Slughorn was not only in charge of Potions, but he was also Head of Slytherin. As soon as he had seen that Varya Petrov would join his students, he was incredibly pleased. The power of her bloodline, although weakened by the years, was undeniable, and her transcripts showed that her mind was as sharp as a unicorn's horn.

Varya, however, did not take to the man as kindly as he did to her, as he had bombarded her with questions the moment class started.

"-and, of course, what else must we add to our Draught of Peace before completing it?" he asked her, trying to test her knowledge. Varya sighed, hoping that, for once, he would direct his attention back to his favored student, Tom Riddle.

"Powdered moonstone," she said bitterly, but her professor took notice as he moved on to explain the potion's purpose. She looked to her right, where Tom Riddle stood at the neighboring cauldron. He took notes of every word that slipped past Slughorn's lips, not even bothering to look down at what he was writing.

It was unfair, Varya thought, that he was so brilliant. She had to admit, however, that she had given him a run for his money in _Care of Magical Creatures,_ her knowledge undoubtedly being more extensive. The girl thought it had irked the prefect, who suddenly started raising his hand more ferociously, trying to answer faster than her.

She found Potions to be enchanting, but could not help her annoyance at the teacher. He seemed to see his pupils not as bright minds that ought to be thought, but rather as prized possibilities to show off.

"Now, please go and get your ingredients," he encouraged them, flicking his wand to open the cabinets that lined the walls. Each student made their way and collected what they needed before making their way back to the tables.

Varya looked at her roommate, Ivy, as she set everything on their table then opened her textbook. Ivy, Varya had come to realize, was a force to be reckoned with, as she was a prefect alongside Tom. She was very feminine, moving with grace as she smashed down the ingredients, and she knew how to use it to her advantage. Varya's eyes caught a few boys looking at Ivy's golden hair and plum face, radiating an uncharacteristic aura for a Slytherin.

Standing next to her, she felt quite insecure over her eastern features and tanned skin. Varya was by no means ugly, but she had to admit she had harsh edges that most men would not be inclined to admire.

Varya looked over at Tom, wondering what he found attractive in a woman, and how she could use it to her advantage. Unfortunately, she had never seen him show interest in any of the girls that followed him with their eyes.

Tom turned around, evident to her questioning stare. "Yes?" he asked, still cutting the valerian root. Varya shook her head, embarrassed at being caught.

"I was wondering if your offer still stood," at his bored look, she continued "to help me learn how to master my wand."

His calculating look made her want to shrink and hide, but she held her ground and refused to be embarrassed by her need for assistance. They had been taught different curriculums, pages of ancient grimoires that whispered of tenebrosity and iniquity, with rituals of tumultuous chants that shattered any barrier of holiness and sank the soul into perdition, lacquering it in blasphemous layers.

Tom added the root to his potion, then briefly motioned towards Ivy, who was now cutting the root as well. "You should help your partner, not interrupt me."

Varya glowered, her pride hurt by what he implied, but before she could answer, he said something else, "Yes, we can practice after the Quidditch game on Saturday."

"Do you play?" she asked, as she could not picture Tom being interested in such a game.

"No," he scoffed, confirming her thoughts. "Why would I ever be interested in such a silly practice?"

Ivy laughed, obviously having eavesdropped on their conversation, then turned to them. She handed Varya the syrup of Hellebore, then looked over her at Tom, who glared back.

"What he means by that," she said, bitting on every word. "Is that he is terrible at it, and we all know there is nothing that annoys perfect Tom Riddle more than not being good at something."

Varya felt the apparent tension between the two and understood it. If Tom was a broken piece of a tragic greek play, with melancholy caressing adonic features, and a ravenous need to be remembered, Ivy was the golden trinkets of temples and places of worship, scalded in grandeur since birth, with entitlement and inherited vigor.

"I would watch my words if I were you, Trouche." is the only thing he settled for, and Varya admired his composure. His features never indicated any of his vicious thoughts, they did not portray his debauched ideals or lack of empathy. Instead, every line of his face was a fine stroke of refined beauty, marble crafted with anointed utensils by brilliant sculptures. The Devil had been a breathtaking being, and Tom Riddle was in all ways seed of his obscurity.

"Is that a threat, Riddle?" Ivy poked at him once more, not caring if she angered the boy. "You might have half of this school wrapped around your finger, good for you, but you are a fool to think that I will ever quiver because of your wrath."

The tension grew thick, and Varya knew that Tom was already scheming to get back at the Slytherin sweetheart. He did not take well to defiance, and he had made sure that everyone knew that. Ivy, however, thought that her badge and blood status protected her, but oh, how wrong she was.

Petrov stepped away from the table, going over to the ingredient cabinet when she noticed they did not have enough powdered unicorn horn. She also felt that her anxiety was getting worse, a premonition of Tom's deteriorating patience, and knew that the best way to avoid what was to come was to find trouble elsewhere. 

As she made her way to the back of the class, someone stepped in front of her. Icarus smiled mockingly, his hand going up to touch a misplaced strand of hair. Varya fought back the need to swat his hand away.

"Ah, my darling, what has gotten you so flustered?" he said as he followed her towards the cabinets. Ever since their duel, Icarus had taken to teasing her relentlessly. He looked back at her table, noticing the stiffness in Tom's shoulders. "Pissed off Riddle, did you not?"

"No, Ivy did, and I did not want to stand in the crossfire," she admitted, although Varya did not know why she was honest with the boy. She supposed he was entertaining, his constant mischief always keeping her on edge.

"Look at you! Only two weeks in, and you have already learned how to shelter yourself," he said, earning a bemused look from the girl. "Yes, as you will see, Riddle is not one to be messed with."

She knew that already, of course, perhaps even better than Icarus did, but she did not say anything as he continued trailing behind her before stopping at his table. He waved her goodbye cheekily, but the girl just rolled her eyes.

As she approached the table, she noticed Ivy had a pale glare to her skin, her hands gripping her desk. Just as she was about to fall, Varya dropped the jar she was holding, letting it smash to the ground, and caught her.

Slughorn paced to them quickly, followed by a few curious students that he tried to shoo away, but to no avail. He took a look at Trouche's unconscious body, then signaled another Slytherin student to pick her up, "Take her to the infirmary, quickly. She seems to have been knocked out by the fume of her potion, which was done improperly."

He then turned to their cauldron and cleared it quickly, as the student carried Ivy out of the room. Varya sat back at her desk, confused, as she had seen Ivy work with the ingredients and had not noticed any mistakes.

She looked at Tom, who had a stone-cold face as he watched the door slam behind the two students. He turned back to his cauldron, which had a perfectly brewed potion, then looked at Varya.

"Pity, I think she might not be able to compete on Saturday," he said mockingly. He looked at Varya, and she could see in his gaze that he dared her to say anything about what had happened. Of course, who would believe that prefect Tom Riddle had slipped something into Ivy's potion when she was not looking? Who would believe that he had purposely stopped her from competing when she was part of his own house's team? And more so, who would believe traitor Varya Petrov over him?

***

The Great Hall sang with the sound of Hogwarts students' chatter, every table filled with delicious meals after a long day of classes. Varya sat at the Slytherin table, Elladora beside her, but had no appetite.

She had heard that Ivy Trouche would be kept in the infirmary for two nights, missing the first Quidditch match of the season. This angered many of her peers, who could not admit that they would lose the game to Gryffindor with their best chaser out cold. Some even conspired, suspecting that it had been the adversary team that had messed with her potion. Varya knew better, though; she knew that the betrayal had happened from the inside.

"Stop brooding," chimed Elladora, placing a piece of chicken on Varya's plate. "She is not dead."

Varya wondered at her words, detecting slight animosity in them. She had figured out that her two roommates did not see eye to eye and that her presence was usually a welcome buffer. For what reason, however, she could not tell.

"I guess," she mumbled, picking at her potatoes with her fork. On the other side of the table, she could see Alphard in a similar state, his face filled with worry.

The Great Hall's doors opened once more, and in walked Tom Riddle and his group of misfits, one more wicked than the other. On his right, as always, stood Abraxas Malfoy, a coy smile rested on his lips and a terrific glint in his eyes. He carried himself with great importance, not even sparing anyone else a look. On the other side was Icarus Lestrange, his wicked jovial nature obvious as he jinxed an unknowing first year that passed by him, making him stumble and land with his face in a plate of porridge. Curiously, two other boys walked behind. Varya had not had the pleasure of meeting them yet.

"Who are the guys that are trailing behind Riddle?" she asked her roommate, watching as he took another bite of her chicken. Elladora followed her gaze, then her eyes went back to Varya, analyzing her.

"The one with the dark hair is Maxwell Nott, he is in our year, and his family is one of the Sacred twenty-eight, perhaps one of the oldest," Elladora answered, as Varya analyzed him. Perhaps, he was the most similar to Riddle in his attitude, looking around with a bored gaze. He was less authoritative, being the most detached from the group. His brown hair was messier than the rest.

"The other one," her friend continued. "Is Renold Rosier. At least by his family name, he is of French descendant, and probably the least fitting to Riddle's group. For one, he has manners, but I suppose all of them share the same thirst of power."

The second boy had much curlier hair, maybe even more so than Tom - why has she comparing everyone to him? He had a calmer nature than the rest, walking elegantly amongst the tables. Varya could not help but notice that he was almost as adored as Riddle.

She scoffed. Had Tom purposely only surrounded himself with attractive men? Then again, he never showed any genuine interest in girls. Nevertheless, they all shared something else in common: they were all, except for Riddle, part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Tom kept good company, it seemed.

Her gaze met his, and she immediately went back to her food. She still carried resentment towards him because of the Potion class and tried to ignore how her heart hammered against her ribcage because of her anxiety.

Even so, the group made their way towards them, much to her displeasure, and sat down, with Riddle right across from her. Malfoy and Lestrange planked his sides, whereas Rosier sat next to Elladora, and Nott placed his bag next to Varya.

"Good evening Varya, Elladora," Icarus greeted them, winking in their direction. Varya scoffed, earning an amused glance from Malfoy.

"Oh, this one does not quite like you," he teased Icarus, at which the other boy only rolled his eyes.

"What are you talking about? Petrov is obviously just denying our inevitable attraction," he laughed loudly, only to be silenced by Riddle's glare.

"You are loud," he mumbled, annoyed at his energy. Had it not been for his status, he would have sent Icarus away ages ago.

Varya stayed silent, her eyes trailing to Elladora and Rosier, who seemed to fall into a casual conversation. Then, Renold Rosier stopped and looked at her, extending his hand over Elladora's shoulder.

"Renold Rosier, a pleasure," he said gallantly, shaking Varya's hand. "Most call me Ren, as I share my father's name."

The girl smiled at him, although somewhat fake, and introduced herself too. On her other side, Maxwell Nott stayed silent, too preoccupied with reading the newspaper. _Very well_ , she thought, refusing to acknowledge him first.

Varya looked at Tom Riddle again, and they made eye contact, some unknown challenge in his eyes. Of course, he wanted to know if she had said anything about the Potion's class. Scowling, Varya shook her head, ignoring the pleased look that she received.

She noticed, however, how easily Elladora Selwyn fell in with them, almost as if she was an extension of their group. Her fiery red hair was pulled in a half-up hairdo, making it easier for Varya to notice the knowing look that she threw Malfoy. Then, as if nothing happened, they all went back to eating in silence.

It seemed as if Varya had underestimated her roommate's ties with Tom Riddle.


	8. chapter six

CHAPTER SIX

The crowd's cheers magnified as the Gryffindor Quidditch team scored yet another point, ensuring their lead of eighty points. Varya watched with prying eyes as the players spun mid-air on their brooms, heading towards another goal post. She turned her face towards Elladora, who was slightly despondent. It seemed as if Slytherin had suffered their first loss without their star chaser, Ivy Trouche.

The wind hit the girls' faces grimly, making their hair sway around them. Varya pulled at her scarf, using it to cover her exposed neck. The autumn breeze had settled in, leaves falling gently towards the ground as death loomed over fauna, a breathing reminder that all creation returned to dust. She pulled her bag closer, then opened it slightly to take out her Transfiguration book. Elladora threw her a glance from the corner of her eyes, unmistakable judgment passing over her face as cherry-wine locks covered her delicate face.

"Oh, Merlin, please do not tell me you will do your essay here," she said, her lips turning down in revulsion. Varya looked at her book, hesitant of her answer. She had grown tired of the game, not fully understanding it despite her friend's detailed explanation. Varya had never been one to take well to sports.

"I suppose I might head to the library then," she said softly, sending her roommate a smile before picking up her school items. She made her way down the stands, then out of the Quidditch field. She walked towards the castle, leisurely, admiring as it stretched out towards the sky with its high towers. Pursing her lips, she wondered if she could ever truly explore the whole school, as its chambers seemed never to end.

Solitude was welcome to her as she realized it was her first time being truly alone in the past week, far away from the ruckus that followed most wizards. Her eyes watered from the intense wind, and she tried to cast some protection around her with her wand but failed the simple task. It was a wrecking notion, a powerful witch reduced to nothing by inconvenience, and Varya felt her wrath pulsate under her skin, like tentacles of darkness dragging against her epidermis, begging for a release of unholy magic. She smothered their voices.

Her frustration prickled her mind, and she felt her hands harden over the useless piece of wood. Varya did not understand how it could cause her such trouble, a chain to any sorcerer's capability, a token of freedom in practice exchanged for sweet lies of a Ministry that declared the dark arts to be sacrilege. Such idiotic notions—there was nothing but honeyed sweetness in the call of devilish rituals, nothing but glory and power, and how easy it is for a nation to cower away from the gifts the Devil had blessed them with.

Thinking back to her Potion's class, Tom Riddle had offered her his help, although she knew very well that it was only a subtle method of gaining information from her. Curiously enough, he had disappeared without a trace ever since, and now she doubted he would meet her as he had promised.

She entered the castle, shutting the door behind her out of habit, took off her scarf, and walked Hogwarts' long hallways. The Slytherin Common Room was deep in the Dungeons, so she took the stairs that lead to it, deciding to use the lounge to study. There were times where the cracking sound of fire was the only lullaby that soothed an arid mind, calming down troubles and exposing inner peace.

As she stood in front of the entrance, she muttered the password, then the passage opened before her. The dim fire cast shadows on the stone walls, creating illusions and playing with her mind.

"Not a fan of Quidditch, then?" asked a voice from behind her. She turned slightly, only briefly glancing at Tom as he made his way to one of the chairs before the fireplace. He had a book in his hand, and Varya tried to make out the title.

_Secrets of The Darkest Art._

He held it in his long digits as if it were a book of worship, something entirely sacred, although every word drawn in splotched ink that colored endless words was nothing but devotion to a lesser deity, a god of evil. Varya's eyes trailed his movements as he pushed it past his long robes, hiding it away from prying eyes, and even then she wondered if Tom had wanted her to see him read it. 

"I suppose not," she said, voice unusually low. "I would say neither are you, but I fear I might faint."

Her mocking tone did not sit well with Tom, as his eyes carried newfound wickedness. Alas, she had finally gotten him alone, and she feared that his true nature would bubble above his fraudulent politeness if she pushed too much.

"A shame that Trouche could not play," he taunted, his tone caring no remorse whatsoever. "I assume she will take the blame for the team's colossal loss."

Varya gawked at him, understanding the many layers of deceit that his plan carried. She supposed it was not evil, no, but she did not doubt that it was the least the boy could do. She wondered what her fate would be if he were ever to find out her truth.

Dumbledore had been meeting with her secretly, helping her strengthen her mind against any possible attack, but she still wavered at her weakest moments. For now, she could hold her thought tightly, but she feared Tom would easily find her most vulnerable times, having her break down before him like a thin stick. He struck her as an odd character that would find pleasure in hearing someone beg underneath him as he annihilated their psyche.

"I thought everyone was at the game," she admitted, suddenly wishing that she had gone to the library.

"I prefer staying behind; the Common Room is not usually as peaceful," he answered as he looked at the fire's flames burning brightly.

"Where have you been in the past few days?" she suddenly inquired, curiosity taking her over. She had not seen him at all, not even in the Great Hall. It was as if he were a phantasm, a walking mirage that deluded the minds of students to turn a blind eye to his atrocious behavior. Tom Riddle had spent years crafting himself from clay, building up lies and appearing to be the image of a god he did not worship, for he thought himself to be the only rightful ruler of the world.

"Missed me, Petrov?" he asked, his voice mocking sweetness in a way that made her skin sting. She scoffed, but he went on. "I have been busy."

His voice carried some degree of crypticness, making her understand that Tom was up to no good. He seemed to come and go as he pleased, and for someone as well respected as him, nobody ever took ample notice of his absence. He was as stealthy as a snake, carrying out his surreptitious affairs under everyone's nose.

"You promised to help me with my wand," she said eventually, unsure of how else to bring up the idea. As much as she dreaded being around him, she knew this was an opportunity to observe him.

"I do not make promises, but yes, I do remember saying that I would help you," Tom concluded, getting up from his chair. "Follow me."

Varya got up, trailing behind the Slytherin prefect as he walked at a fast pace out of the Slytherin dormitory. From the back, she slowly observed his movement. He seemed to almost float, his steps graceful as he advanced towards one of the doors. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture as perfect as always.

The girl hurried her movements, eventually falling in to step with Tom. He looked at her from the corner of his eye, analyzing her nervousness, but said nothing as they made their way to the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. 

"Surely we cannot enter," said Varya, who had heard from other classmates that the forest was off-limits to students unless they attended detention. She found it odd that they would send them there as punishment, despite being aware of the danger.

Her legs could not carry her deeper into the woods, as her mind was attacked by memories of the deep, dark forests that surrounded her old school. On multiple occasions, she had seen monstrous creatures peek out from behind the trees, their gaze filled with grotesque hunger. Varya doubted that Hogwarts kept such monsters around, but she would not doubt that there was still danger.

Tom saw her fear, almost smelt it on her, as she stopped to gawk at the line of trees. He saw her hands clench, his Adam apple bobble as he swallowed forcefully. Her breath came out shaky, and her eyelids fluttered rapidly, almost as if blinking away the image before her. _Fascinating_ , he thought, taking note of her momentary delicacy.

"Pull out your wand," he instructed, his voice stern. His authority demanded reverence, and Varya swiftly followed his instructions. Her wand felt foreign in her hands. "Cast a spell at a tree, try to do it as you normally would with your hand."

Varya went through the motions, mumbling " _Reducto"_ as she directed the long stick towards one of the trees. Much to her annoyance, there was only a puff of smoke that came out. She groaned, already frustrated. Although gifted in witchcraft, Varya had quite the temperament and was easily put-off when something did not come to her naturally.

Tom, on the other hand, was the master of practice, as he had spent countless hours perfecting his spells once he arrived at Hogwarts, trying to catch up with the rest of his peers that had grown in magical households. A self-made wizard, a catalyst of resentment that rooted in his practice, until each slash of his wand became rugged, aggressive, and he found pleasure in striking those around him down. 

"No, you will get nowhere if you do not believe in your magic," he said as he circled her. "Do it again."

Her second failure was even more embarrassing, as she heard him sigh from behind her.

"Again," the authority in his voice was pestering, as if Tom believed himself to be a person of great importance, who understood magic better than anyone else.

"Again"

"Again!" he raised his voice, disappointed at the fact that the girl would not entirely focus. Had he been mistaken in acknowledging her intellect? No, he knew that she was only holding herself back. He made his way to her, gripping her wrist and tugging her to meet his stare.

"Petrov, stop fooling around, neither of us has time for you to act daft. Concentrate, feel the wand as an extension to your power rather than something that holds you down," he said, then pushed her forward to the tree.

Varya frowned, unappreciative at being manhandled, but she supposed he had a point. She was not in her right mind, unable to focus under his watchful eyes. Drawing in a small breath, she pointed her wand again, casting the spell in her mind with as much belief as she could. The red light hit the tree's bark, sending it flying in all directions. Both of them cast a protective shield, Varya, with a satisfied smile and Tom with a nod of acknowledgment. He looked at her, watching her chin fly up higher at her achievement, eyes glowing at the fact that she had knocked down another skill. He hummed appreciatively, glad to see the talented witch back on track.

"Now, why don't you tell me about your school?" he did not bother with more pleasentries, his low energy not allowing him to be courteous with her. Varya turned, her raven hair locks clumping around harsh features, and suspicion flowered in her onyx irises. Of course, he had his reasons for helping her, but that had been expected, right? He was a manipulative person that used her weakness as a place of common ground, attempting to lower her protective barriers by appearing in the image of a gracious savior. 

"What do you want to know?" she asked, deciding on enabling his meddling. She sat down near a tree, pulling at her robes. Tom did not sit next to her, but instead, he kept his upright position, supporting his shoulder on another tree. His hands flew to his pockets, and Varya marveled at his causality.

"Did you truly study the Dark Arts?" he questioned her, then continued at her affirmative nod. "What do you remember?"

"I remember its history mainly," she admitted, her eyes trailing the horizon. "They taught us of its origins, of the many artifacts that had been created as a result. Some spells as well, mainly jinxes and hexes but also—"

Her voice trailed off as something knocked at her brain, almost as if a memory was threatening to spill. Tom raised an eyebrow as if telling her to continue, but the girl only stared off in the distance, lost in her own land of fanaticism. It was a common notion that the souls of Scholomance were wicked, progenitures of the wretched, and that there was some crazed reverie that often plagued their thoughts. The atrociousness they had witnessed in their years of education was enough to make one unstable, dark magic palpable, and they swayed like broken beings in clouds of terror, the faint taste of dusted sacrilege on their lips. 

She cleared her throat, snapping out of it. "It is not something you should dwell on, Tom. The Dark Arts are prohibited in many countries, such as Japan, for a reason. They break your mind and feed on your weakness."

She got up, taking her bag off of the ground and placing its strap on her shoulder, then dusted off her robes. A moment of reticence was enough for the staggering soul of a lost boy to cling to a promise of mind-baffling power.

"That is if you are weak," Tom said, his smirk carrying a devilish charm. Varya looked at him, honestly looked at him. The boy before her oozed of blinded confidence, as someone who had no knowledge of the real horrors of Dark Arts would.

"You are not invincible, Tom," she told him, making him freeze. He looked at her, his jaw clenched, and she looked at him, her eyes unyielding.

Their eyes battled in silence, unspoken words passing between the two of them. Once again, two sides clashed, and like water and oil, they repelled each other. Each found the other childish, an uncultivated seed that had not faced the weather's wrath. Without another word, both headed in different directions.

***

Varya passed by the Hospital's wing, then stopped as she saw a familiar face just making her way out. Ivy Trouche looked as if she had not slept in days; lilac patches on translucent skin were the only nuance that colored the witch as she trudged into the corridor, frame weakened by the poison that Tom had undoubtedly slipped into her cauldron. When her eyes met Petrov's, indescribable wrath stomped out any fatigue.

"I cannot believe he meddled with the potion, Varya," Ivy started. "He truly thinks that he cannot be held responsible, that rules do not apply to him."

They started walking together, Varya slightly supporting her friend as they went down the stone steps to their dormitory. She did not know what to answer, so she mumbled something in acknowledgment. Yes, Tom Riddle had an undeniable massive ego that made him see himself as some superhuman.

"I do not know how I will get back at him, but I will," her roommate stated as they entered the Common Room. She looked around, then turned to Varya, grabbing her shoulders. "You have to help me."

"I do not know what to say, Ivy. I do not think poking a hibernating bear is a good idea," she said truthfully, not wanting to be on the receiving end of Riddle's wrath. It would go against her plans to get on his wrong side.

"I am not talking about harming him, Varya, we both know he is too cautious about letting his guard down. Nevertheless, we can expose him, show the world his true nature. I know you see it just as well as I do."

"Why are you so hellbent on revenge?" Varya asked. Her time at Hogwarts had taught her that most students admired Tom Riddle.

"Because," Trouche huffed, annoyed. "He is insufferable, truly. He walks around and orders our House as if he is some leader. He has everyone around his finger, and I am afraid he has been getting to Alphard."

Of course, Ivy was protecting her boyfriend from Tom's evil grasp.

"So what, we get his mask to crack? Stir a reaction out of him?" Varya asked in a hushed voice. Ivy pondered, sitting down on the couch, "A job for a lunatic."

"I will think about it," the Slytherin pureblood answered, her eyes filled with determination. "But, Varya..."

"Yes?"

"Do not, under any circumstances, let Elladora know anything," she said, venom in her voice as she spat the other girl's name. Varya looked at her questioningly. She knew her roommates did not quite like each other, but it seemed she had underestimated their animosity.

"Why?" she asked, not understanding Ivy's warning. Elladora had been warm to her so far, showing her around the castle more than anyone else.

"There is much you do not understand about this school yet. All of our families have history dating back hundreds of years, and because of that, beliefs and loyalty are passed down generation from generation. Not everyone you share a meal with will be your friend, and not everyone that raises a sword against you will be your foe." she said, heading towards the stairs that lead to the girl's dormitories. "Anyhow, give my proposal a thought, I think it would benefit us both just as well."

With that, Ivy entered their shared room, leaving Varya behind to think over her words.

The crowd's cheers magnified as the Gryffindor Quidditch team scored yet another point, ensuring their lead of eighty points. Varya watched with prying eyes as the players spun mid-air on their brooms, heading towards another goal post. She turned her face towards Elladora, who was slightly despondent. It seemed as if Slytherin had suffered their first loss without their star chaser, Ivy Trouche.

The wind hit the girls' faces grimly, making their hair sway around them. Varya pulled at her scarf, using it to cover her exposed neck. The autumn breeze had settled in, leaves falling gently towards the ground as death loomed over fauna, a breathing reminder that all creation returned to dust. She pulled her bag closer, then opened it slightly to take out her Transfiguration book. Elladora threw her a glance from the corner of her eyes, unmistakable judgment passing over her face as cherry-wine locks covered her delicate face.

"Oh, Merlin, please do not tell me you will do your essay here," she said, her lips turning down in revulsion. Varya looked at her book, hesitant of her answer. She had grown tired of the game, not fully understanding it despite her friend's detailed explanation. Varya had never been one to take well to sports.

"I suppose I might head to the library then," she said softly, sending her roommate a smile before picking up her school items. She made her way down the stands, then out of the Quidditch field. She walked towards the castle, leisurely, admiring as it stretched out towards the sky with its high towers. Pursing her lips, she wondered if she could ever truly explore the whole school, as its chambers seemed never to end.

Solitude was welcome to her as she realized it was her first time being truly alone in the past week, far away from the ruckus that followed most wizards. Her eyes watered from the intense wind, and she tried to cast some protection around her with her wand but failed the simple task. It was a wrecking notion, a powerful witch reduced to nothing by inconvenience, and Varya felt her wrath pulsate under her skin, like tentacles of darkness dragging against her epidermis, begging for a release of unholy magic. She smothered their voices.

Her frustration prickled her mind, and she felt her hands harden over the useless piece of wood. Varya did not understand how it could cause her such trouble, a chain to any sorcerer's capability, a token of freedom in practice exchanged for sweet lies of a Ministry that declared the dark arts to be sacrilege. Such idiotic notions—there was nothing but honeyed sweetness in the call of devilish rituals, nothing but glory and power, and how easy it is for a nation to cower away from the gifts the Devil had blessed them with.

Thinking back to her Potion's class, Tom Riddle had offered her his help, although she knew very well that it was only a subtle method of gaining information from her. Curiously enough, he had disappeared without a trace ever since, and now she doubted he would meet her as he had promised.

She entered the castle, shutting the door behind her out of habit, took off her scarf, and walked Hogwarts' long hallways. The Slytherin Common Room was deep in the Dungeons, so she took the stairs that lead to it, deciding to use the lounge to study. There were times where the cracking sound of fire was the only lullaby that soothed an arid mind, calming down troubles and exposing inner peace.

As she stood in front of the entrance, she muttered the password, then the passage opened before her. The dim fire cast shadows on the stone walls, creating illusions and playing with her mind.

"Not a fan of Quidditch, then?" asked a voice from behind her. She turned slightly, only briefly glancing at Tom as he made his way to one of the chairs before the fireplace. He had a book in his hand, and Varya tried to make out the title.

_Secrets of The Darkest Art._

He held it in his long digits as if it were a book of worship, something entirely sacred, although every word drawn in splotched ink that colored endless words was nothing but devotion to a lesser deity, a god of evil. Varya's eyes trailed his movements as he pushed it past his long robes, hiding it away from prying eyes, and even then she wondered if Tom had wanted her to see him read it. 

"I suppose not," she said, voice unusually low. "I would say neither are you, but I fear I might faint."

Her mocking tone did not sit well with Tom, as his eyes carried newfound wickedness. Alas, she had finally gotten him alone, and she feared that his true nature would bubble above his fraudulent politeness if she pushed too much.

"A shame that Trouche could not play," he taunted, his tone caring no remorse whatsoever. "I assume she will take the blame for the team's colossal loss."

Varya gawked at him, understanding the many layers of deceit that his plan carried. She supposed it was not evil, no, but she did not doubt that it was the least the boy could do. She wondered what her fate would be if he were ever to find out her truth.

Dumbledore had been meeting with her secretly, helping her strengthen her mind against any possible attack, but she still wavered at her weakest moments. For now, she could hold her thought tightly, but she feared Tom would easily find her most vulnerable times, having her break down before him like a thin stick. He struck her as an odd character that would find pleasure in hearing someone beg underneath him as he annihilated their psyche.

"I thought everyone was at the game," she admitted, suddenly wishing that she had gone to the library.

"I prefer staying behind; the Common Room is not usually as peaceful," he answered as he looked at the fire's flames burning brightly.

"Where have you been in the past few days?" she suddenly inquired, curiosity taking her over. She had not seen him at all, not even in the Great Hall. It was as if he were a phantasm, a walking mirage that deluded the minds of students to turn a blind eye to his atrocious behavior. Tom Riddle had spent years crafting himself from clay, building up lies and appearing to be the image of a god he did not worship, for he thought himself to be the only rightful ruler of the world.

"Missed me, Petrov?" he asked, his voice mocking sweetness in a way that made her skin sting. She scoffed, but he went on. "I have been busy."

His voice carried some degree of crypticness, making her understand that Tom was up to no good. He seemed to come and go as he pleased, and for someone as well respected as him, nobody ever took ample notice of his absence. He was as stealthy as a snake, carrying out his surreptitious affairs under everyone's nose.

"You promised to help me with my wand," she said eventually, unsure of how else to bring up the idea. As much as she dreaded being around him, she knew this was an opportunity to observe him.

"I do not make promises, but yes, I do remember saying that I would help you," Tom concluded, getting up from his chair. "Follow me."

Varya got up, trailing behind the Slytherin prefect as he walked at a fast pace out of the Slytherin dormitory. From the back, she slowly observed his movement. He seemed to almost float, his steps graceful as he advanced towards one of the doors. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture as perfect as always.

The girl hurried her movements, eventually falling in to step with Tom. He looked at her from the corner of his eye, analyzing her nervousness, but said nothing as they made their way to the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. 

"Surely we cannot enter," said Varya, who had heard from other classmates that the forest was off-limits to students unless they attended detention. She found it odd that they would send them there as punishment, despite being aware of the danger.

Her legs could not carry her deeper into the woods, as her mind was attacked by memories of the deep, dark forests that surrounded her old school. On multiple occasions, she had seen monstrous creatures peek out from behind the trees, their gaze filled with grotesque hunger. Varya doubted that Hogwarts kept such monsters around, but she would not doubt that there was still danger.

Tom saw her fear, almost smelt it on her, as she stopped to gawk at the line of trees. He saw her hands clench, his Adam apple bobble as he swallowed forcefully. Her breath came out shaky, and her eyelids fluttered rapidly, almost as if blinking away the image before her. _Fascinating_ , he thought, taking note of her momentary delicacy.

"Pull out your wand," he instructed, his voice stern. His authority demanded reverence, and Varya swiftly followed his instructions. Her wand felt foreign in her hands. "Cast a spell at a tree, try to do it as you normally would with your hand."

Varya went through the motions, mumbling " _Reducto"_ as she directed the long stick towards one of the trees. Much to her annoyance, there was only a puff of smoke that came out. She groaned, already frustrated. Although gifted in witchcraft, Varya had quite the temperament and was easily put-off when something did not come to her naturally.

Tom, on the other hand, was the master of practice, as he had spent countless hours perfecting his spells once he arrived at Hogwarts, trying to catch up with the rest of his peers that had grown in magical households. A self-made wizard, a catalyst of resentment that rooted in his practice, until each slash of his wand became rugged, aggressive, and he found pleasure in striking those around him down. 

"No, you will get nowhere if you do not believe in your magic," he said as he circled her. "Do it again."

Her second failure was even more embarrassing, as she heard him sigh from behind her.

"Again," the authority in his voice was pestering, as if Tom believed himself to be a person of great importance, who understood magic better than anyone else.

"Again"

"Again!" he raised his voice, disappointed at the fact that the girl would not entirely focus. Had he been mistaken in acknowledging her intellect? No, he knew that she was only holding herself back. He made his way to her, gripping her wrist and tugging her to meet his stare.

"Petrov, stop fooling around, neither of us has time for you to act daft. Concentrate, feel the wand as an extension to your power rather than something that holds you down," he said, then pushed her forward to the tree.

Varya frowned, unappreciative at being manhandled, but she supposed he had a point. She was not in her right mind, unable to focus under his watchful eyes. Drawing in a small breath, she pointed her wand again, casting the spell in her mind with as much belief as she could. The red light hit the tree's bark, sending it flying in all directions. Both of them cast a protective shield, Varya, with a satisfied smile and Tom with a nod of acknowledgment. He looked at her, watching her chin fly up higher at her achievement, eyes glowing at the fact that she had knocked down another skill. He hummed appreciatively, glad to see the talented witch back on track.

"Now, why don't you tell me about your school?" he did not bother with more pleasentries, his low energy not allowing him to be courteous with her. Varya turned, her raven hair locks clumping around harsh features, and suspicion flowered in her onyx irises. Of course, he had his reasons for helping her, but that had been expected, right? He was a manipulative person that used her weakness as a place of common ground, attempting to lower her protective barriers by appearing in the image of a gracious savior. 

"What do you want to know?" she asked, deciding on enabling his meddling. She sat down near a tree, pulling at her robes. Tom did not sit next to her, but instead, he kept his upright position, supporting his shoulder on another tree. His hands flew to his pockets, and Varya marveled at his causality.

"Did you truly study the Dark Arts?" he questioned her, then continued at her affirmative nod. "What do you remember?"

"I remember its history mainly," she admitted, her eyes trailing the horizon. "They taught us of its origins, of the many artifacts that had been created as a result. Some spells as well, mainly jinxes and hexes but also—"

Her voice trailed off as something knocked at her brain, almost as if a memory was threatening to spill. Tom raised an eyebrow as if telling her to continue, but the girl only stared off in the distance, lost in her own land of fanaticism. It was a common notion that the souls of Scholomance were wicked, progenitures of the wretched, and that there was some crazed reverie that often plagued their thoughts. The atrociousness they had witnessed in their years of education was enough to make one unstable, dark magic palpable, and they swayed like broken beings in clouds of terror, the faint taste of dusted sacrilege on their lips. 

She cleared her throat, snapping out of it. "It is not something you should dwell on, Tom. The Dark Arts are prohibited in many countries, such as Japan, for a reason. They break your mind and feed on your weakness."

She got up, taking her bag off of the ground and placing its strap on her shoulder, then dusted off her robes. A moment of reticence was enough for the staggering soul of a lost boy to cling to a promise of mind-baffling power.

"That is if you are weak," Tom said, his smirk carrying a devilish charm. Varya looked at him, honestly looked at him. The boy before her oozed of blinded confidence, as someone who had no knowledge of the real horrors of Dark Arts would.

"You are not invincible, Tom," she told him, making him freeze. He looked at her, his jaw clenched, and she looked at him, her eyes unyielding.

Their eyes battled in silence, unspoken words passing between the two of them. Once again, two sides clashed, and like water and oil, they repelled each other. Each found the other childish, an uncultivated seed that had not faced the weather's wrath. Without another word, both headed in different directions.

***

Varya passed by the Hospital's wing, then stopped as she saw a familiar face just making her way out. Ivy Trouche looked as if she had not slept in days; lilac patches on translucent skin were the only nuance that colored the witch as she trudged into the corridor, frame weakened by the poison that Tom had undoubtedly slipped into her cauldron. When her eyes met Petrov's, indescribable wrath stomped out any fatigue.

"I cannot believe he meddled with the potion, Varya," Ivy started. "He truly thinks that he cannot be held responsible, that rules do not apply to him."

They started walking together, Varya slightly supporting her friend as they went down the stone steps to their dormitory. She did not know what to answer, so she mumbled something in acknowledgment. Yes, Tom Riddle had an undeniable massive ego that made him see himself as some superhuman.

"I do not know how I will get back at him, but I will," her roommate stated as they entered the Common Room. She looked around, then turned to Varya, grabbing her shoulders. "You have to help me."

"I do not know what to say, Ivy. I do not think poking a hibernating bear is a good idea," she said truthfully, not wanting to be on the receiving end of Riddle's wrath. It would go against her plans to get on his wrong side.

"I am not talking about harming him, Varya, we both know he is too cautious about letting his guard down. Nevertheless, we can expose him, show the world his true nature. I know you see it just as well as I do."

"Why are you so hellbent on revenge?" Varya asked. Her time at Hogwarts had taught her that most students admired Tom Riddle.

"Because," Trouche huffed, annoyed. "He is insufferable, truly. He walks around and orders our House as if he is some leader. He has everyone around his finger, and I am afraid he has been getting to Alphard."

Of course, Ivy was protecting her boyfriend from Tom's evil grasp.

"So what, we get his mask to crack? Stir a reaction out of him?" Varya asked in a hushed voice. Ivy pondered, sitting down on the couch, "A job for a lunatic."

"I will think about it," the Slytherin pureblood answered, her eyes filled with determination. "But, Varya..."

"Yes?"

"Do not, under any circumstances, let Elladora know anything," she said, venom in her voice as she spat the other girl's name. Varya looked at her questioningly. She knew her roommates did not quite like each other, but it seemed she had underestimated their animosity.

"Why?" she asked, not understanding Ivy's warning. Elladora had been warm to her so far, showing her around the castle more than anyone else.

"There is much you do not understand about this school yet. All of our families have history dating back hundreds of years, and because of that, beliefs and loyalty are passed down generation from generation. Not everyone you share a meal with will be your friend, and not everyone that raises a sword against you will be your foe." she said, heading towards the stairs that lead to the girl's dormitories. "Anyhow, give my proposal a thought, I think it would benefit us both just as well."

With that, Ivy entered their shared room, leaving Varya behind to think over her words.


	9. chapter seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

November settled over the Scotland fields, bringing its storms and rain with it. The sky sparked alive as lightning struck across it, followed by the imperious sound of thunder. The wind hit the windows of the castle, making them shake at its force.

An unfamiliar feeling overtook Varya as she heard the whistling of the wind, although not indescribable, and she pulled her knees closer to her chest. From one of the windows of the Eastern Tower, she watched as the sun slowly drained on the horizon. Her breath was somewhat shaky due to climbing countless stairs, and she took a minute to calm her beating heart.

Over the past month, her stature had grown smaller, cheeks standing out and eyes having a reddish tint. Her tiredness took over most of her day, and no matter what she did, she could not bring herself to fully focus.

As the clock approached midnight, she wondered if her Astronomy class would go longer than expected. Varya hoped that her teacher would take notice of her weakened state and send her to the infirmary, which she had meticulously avoided.

She blamed it on her overly-stressed nature, as she had been polishing herself raw to be ahead in most of her classes. The girl was surprised at her lack of resilience, as she did not find the Hogwarts curriculum to be challenging. Perhaps, the change in scenery had messed with her competency.

"You look quite out of sorts," said Ren Rosier as he approached her, a textbook in hand. Varya let out a small whimper as a response, not bothering to look up at him. Once the bell struck midnight, they both headed to their class.

A spell had been cast over their heads, protecting them from the weather's wrath. Nevertheless, the sky was barely visible, stormy clouds covering most of it. Their teacher, a robust woman with less dexterity than a Sasquatch, looked unpleased at this.

"I suppose we will go over the constellations today," she said, "We were supposed to study Jupiter's mood. Ah, and I told Armando that moving the fifth-year class to midnight was no good!"

Varya took this as an opportunity to sit down and slack against one of the Tower's walls, her head falling to her knees. She had hoped that the class would be canceled, but her teacher refused to do so.

"Rough week, then?" asked Ren as he sat down beside her, pulling out one of his charts. "Bloody weather, the professor should just let us leave early."

"You reckon I could ask her to dismiss me early?" Varya cringed at her voice sounding so hoarse, as if she had been drained of her life supply.

"Good luck with that, so many students have taken a dislike towards Astronomy that she does not believe them when they try to get out of class." he laughed, scribbling the answers with his pen rapidly.

"That is the Aquarius constellation," Varya pointed weakly.

Ren turned to her, "Of course," he mumbled and cut his answer with a vertical line. "I have heard that you are quite the scholar, teachers have taken a liking to you. Have you perhaps gotten an invite to the Slug Club?"

Varya frowned, unfamiliar with the name, earning a laugh from the curly-haired boy. His dimples poked out, and the girl was shocked at seeing one of Riddle's man so expressive.

"Yes, I suppose it is quite hard for a girl to get in. As a matter of fact, I believe there are only two that Slughorn has invited, whereas the number of boys is quadrupled." he said, some arrogance in his voice.

"Whatever do you mean by that? Do you truly think that a woman is no match for a man intellectually?" her heavy accent twisted the words, making them come out even harsher. As far as she was aware, she was second in most of her classes, the only person who was able to beat her was Tom.

Joyfully, Renold answered, "I am not the one sending out the invites, dear, and if I were, believe me, that I would put you above most foolish Gryffindors at that table." His compliment fell short, however, as Varya's ego was still hurt by the notion of not being invited. She did not want to think much of this, but she could not help herself.

"And who exactly is part of this club?" she asked venomously, wondering what the criteria were.

"Well, I, of course, am part of it. Then, there is Malfoy and Nott, who you have graciously met. Ivy Trouche is one of the girls, although she fills the room much as a man would," he sneered, and Varya frowned at his words. Was he not the gentle one of the group? And if so, then what opinions did the others carry of Ivy? They all seemed to be in a silent war with her and Varya could not figure out why."I believe you have not met Avery as of right now, he is quite the character, you see. He broods in his room for most meals, does not like socializing."

Varya thought back to the fifth follower of Tom Riddle, who was surely the most evasive, as he almost never paraded himself around the room like the rest of them. No, Avery was a quiet presence, and that made him most dangerous.

"Lestrange is part of it for some unknown reason, I do not doubt his dueling skills, but his trickster behavior is frowned upon by most teachers," he continued, not expecting a reply from the girl. "Ah, but Slughorn is not like most, he values intellect over pretense politeness. Perhaps that is what makes him such a great Head professor for our house, besides his lack of self-awareness that keeps us out of trouble. He favors Slytherins, only a few other students from Ravenclaw and Gryffindor are invited. No Hufflepuffs, of course, they don't have the right mindset."

Thinking deeply, Varya could not help but agree. She had noticed the teacher's favoritism, and how he treasured bright minds. Of course, his most favored student was...

"Tom Riddle is, as you would expect, a member. One of the first to be recruited. What is an academic meeting without the star, right?" Ren turns to her, smirking at her downcasted face. "Not a fan of Riddle? You are one of the few then, everyone seems to eat out of his hand, including Slughorn."

"And what do you make of him, then? I have seen you by his side consistently and yet, whenever the rest of you laugh, he is silent," probed Varya, trying to understand the group's dynamics better. Rosier turned away from her, a sour look on his face.

"Riddle is an admirable man," he concluded, avoiding her eyes. That only made her turn to see him better.

"But he is not your friend," she said, her words a statement rather than a question.

Ren pursed his lips, a deep breath leaving his body as he seemed to carefully pick out his words. Of course, Varya thought, all of them are so careful as to how they mention their involvement with Tom. What are they hiding?

"Nevertheless, I believe you will receive an invitation soon enough. There has not yet been a meeting; perhaps, he will send out your letter once the date is set," he changed the subject to Varya's annoyance. Then, his eyes fell on the clock that stood on his wrist. "Would you look at that, chattered the class away, did I not? It was a pleasure to meet you, Petrov. Until later..."

He got up swiftly, then made his exit before Varya could ask anything else. Varya reluctantly made her way back to her chambers, embracing the comfort that was sleep.

***

The Great Hall smelled of herbs and pumpkin as the Petrov girl entered, its intensity hitting her sensory receptors like a slap. It made her dizzy, and she wondered if she would be able to eat something consistent today. She made her way down the rows of tables, heaving towards a redheaded girl that stood alone, savoring her meal.

"Good morning, Ella," Varya greeted her as she sat down across from her.

Elladora nodded in her direction then smiled, "Feeling better, I see?" she asked her honey eyes analyzing every inch of Varya's face. "Good, I feared you were coming down with a serious illness."

Ivy Trouche threw her bag on the table, making a bit of soup spill down Elladora's sweater, which earned her a nasty glare. Ivy rolled her eyes, then proceeded to cast a quick spell to clean the girl's clothes.

"Watch it," Elladora barked at her roommate, already annoyed by her presence.

"Please, it did not even leave a stain," then, the blonde girl leaned over one of the pots, smelling its contents. "Beef stew yet again? I was hoping for chicken."

"There might be a shortage, they have not served any in weeks," Varya admitted as she analyzed the table. Both of them helped themselves at the feast, ignoring the redheaded girl as she continued to glare at Ivy.

Varya looked at Ivy, chewing her food while deep in thought. She remembered the girl's offer from a few weeks ago and wondered if she had been losing sleep over it as Varya had. Getting back at Tom Riddle? It seemed to be a dead man's wish. Varya then shook her head, better not think of it so early in the day.

Elladora handed her a cup of tea, which she gratefully accepted then drank quickly. She had been basking in the godly pleasure that was British tea, so much different from the one that she would drink as a child. Suddenly, she remembered something.

"Ivy, I heard that you are part of the Slug Club?" Varya asked, taking her roommate by surprise.

"Yes," she said, blinking in confusion. "Why do you ask?"

"How does one get invited? Ren told me that it was based on academics, however, I have yet to receive an invite," Varya questioned, thinking back to the conversation she had had with the boy.

"That is odd," Ivy admitted, suddenly deep in thought. "Unless someone specifically told Slughorn not to invite you."

The girls shared a look, fully aware of who would have such grasp over their professor. Varya frowned, extremely confused as to why Tom would not want her to attend. Yes, they were competitors in most classes and they did not get along well, but there had to be another reason. Riddle was not one to sabotage his opponents, he enjoyed seeing them squished by his power.

Varya looked at Elladora, who was silently chewing on her food, not partaking in the conversation. The redheaded girl pretended not to listen, but her ears were red, signaling that she was invested in their conversation. Peculiar.

"I will ask him after Potions," she concluded, not wanting to talk too much. Varya was still unsure on where her roommate's loyalties stood. She had not seen her around the boys, but Elladora was extremely familiar with them, Varya could tell.

Ivy nodded, understanding the finality of the conversation, then took a napkin to back some sweets. She excused herself, saying that she was late for a meeting with Alphard. Elladora then looked up and gave Varya a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.


	10. chapter eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

"The Wit-Sharpening Potion is something that you might find to be especially useful, as it helps the wizard get a newfound sense of clearness. In the wizarding world, you will often find people mentioning it as an antidote to the Confundus Charm." Slughorn paced the room, some of his students' gazes following him, while others preoccupied themselves with making their origami frogs jump in unsuspecting classmates' hair. "Now, do not abuse this potion; it is not an academic performance enhancer. Furthermore,l will know if you use it on your O.W.L.s!"

A tickle woke Varya up from her daydream, and she turned around to scowl at an incredibly amused Icarus. He gave her a charming smile, teeth flashing, almost as if feigning innocence. His short hair had grown out in the past month, curling at the edges due to its weight. It fell over his forehead as he leaned over to pass her a piece of parchment.

The girl took it quickly, passing a glance at her professor, who was now scolding a student for making a paper frog hang itself from his wand, then opened it under her desk.

_Are you going to Hogsmeade?_

Varya wandered for a moment, thinking back to her conversation with Elladora. Her roommate had mentioned the upcoming trip to the nearby wizarding village, fawning over the many shops that sold carefully crafted goods. Petrov let out a small sigh past her lips, knowing very well that she would never be able to get permission from the woman she had grown up with.

As soon as Varya had turned eleven, her powers had begun showing without her permission, strange occurrences unsettling the villagers. The child had begun to see the little sparks of sorcery in the air, the darkness that spoke out from the woods, and just like any youngster would, she one day followed a trail towards the forest's heart. Her caretaker, Magdalena, had thought her dead when she did not show up for two nights, weeping at the thought of losing the girl she had grown as a daughter.

On the third night, the child emerged from the woods unscattered. She had followed the fairies towards one of their secret glades, trying to catch them as they flew past her reddened ears. At first, the fairies were not pleased with her presence, throwing little cones at her, but the girl persisted, smiling at what she thought to be a game. Eventually, they gave in, allowing her to spend two nights with them while feeding her nectar and small fruits, combing through her hair with their small hands, and telling her stories of their magic world.

When she started missing home, Varya bid them farewell and returned to Magdalena. She told stories of fairy dust and glamour to her caregiver, who was deeply unsettled by the child's worlds. Magdalena went to the town's mayor for consultation, who immediately passed his judgment.

"A witch! The Lord has forsaken us; he has let a witch grow in our village." he cried, demanding that the child be brought immediately and burned. Unbeknownst to him, Dalibor, the Dark Priest of Scholomance, had happened to stop by for his supplies.

He quickly sent word to the school's helpers, who came in the middle of the night, cloaked over their aging faces, and took the child in her sleep. Varya cried for days, demanding to be sent home, not understanding what she had done wrong, only for the Dalibor to lock her in her room. As a child, she would not know what had happened until years later, when one of the maidens that cleaned her chamber told her.

"Miss Petrov?" Slughorn's voice broke her from her train of thought, reality crashing her soul. "Are you quite all right? Would you like to visit the infirmary?" He asked, surprised by his student's uncharacteristic behavior.

Varya shook her head, rheumy eyes blinking fast to recover. Her cheeks had flushed, and her ghostly skin seemed to glisten with sweat. She pressed the back of her hand against her forehead, quickly drying it, then kept her gaze on her shoes, trying to let herself breathe regularly. Panic was a fanged deity that showed her glistening teeth, poisonous saliva dripping down in droplets of transpiration down her temples, and the quivering in her hands returned.

_You are safe. Nobody can hurt you here. You are safe. Nobody can hurt you here._

"You look as if the Bloody Baron has just chased you around the Dungeons," came Tom Riddle's whisper.

_Except him._

Varya looked at him, her gaze unfocused, and still glossed over. Spellbinding, his eyes were. Long, dark eyelashes framed them as if they were the most prized work of art, giving a soft undertone to their light. A cruel mind lay behind them, and its sparks lit the eyes with indescribable darkness. Cold, calculating, but still carrying the broodiness of a man who had seen his fair share of sinfulness. Tom Riddle was the epitome of the devil's temptation, not only because of his dashing appearance but also due to his all-knowing aura. He dominated the room, commanding it with a simple flick of a hand.

"I feel unwell," she told him a half-truth. Although she had not managed to shake off her sickness, she was feeling better. But to admit weakness to Riddle would have been foolish, and even when her past crawled from behind darkened corners, and her mind broke a little more than before, she plastered bogus smiles and let her eyes twinkle with fading luminiscense.

"You feel unwell?" he said, his eyes carrying something that Varya could not quite understand. "That is a shame," he continued sarcastically, "perhaps, you will succumb to your death, and I will not have to be witness to you passing love notes in class."

Varya gave him a horrified look, then crumbled the piece of paper Icarus had given her. She turned to Lestrange, silently giving him a negative shake of the head and letting him know that she would not be visiting Hogsmeade over the weekend. He gave her a pout, but then resumed taking notes of the professor's lecture.

"It was not a love note," she answered after a while, voice small. Varya did not know why she felt the need to clarify her correspondence's contents, but it irked her mind. Tom gave her an unimpressed look, not caring for it.

The class ended once the professor assigned them an essay on the importance of not using potions in competitive settings, and the students happily got up from their seats, making their way out of the chamber. Varya stayed behind, waiting for everyone to leave the room, then, she approached Slughorn.

"Professor," she began, a sickeningly sweet voice speaking in her stead, "I wanted to apologize for being so unfocused during your lesson. To be truthful, I have been feeling under the weather as of late."

Varya was not lying entirely, as she had been fighting off an autumn illness, but she knew very well it was not the reason for her being distracted. Slughorn sat down at his desk, slowly packing his scrolls as he waved her off nonchalantly, a gesture meant to urge her to come closer.

"Do not worry, Miss Petrov. I am very much aware of your outstanding academic capabilities," he admitted, "I have looked over your transcripts, and I was impressed, I believe I have told you so already. I do understand if you found this lesson to trigger your boredom, it was not as challenging to someone of your standing."

Varya gave him a sham smile, her sunken face making her cheeks stand out as her skin stretched, and her eyebrows knotted in a disturbing expression. If the man was bothered by her phantom appearance, he did not let it show.

"Yes, while we are on the topic, a friend of mine informed me of this afterschool gathering that he attends. It is hosted by you, sir, and I was told that only the most accomplished wizards and witches are in attendance," she let her face fall in faux concern, "but then I realized I had not been invited and...I do not wish to step my boundaries, but have I slipped in your eyes?

Slughorn looked at her, surprise flashing across his face, and Varya wondered if she had come on too hard, too demanding. She did not, by any means, want to seem as if she was beginning for an invitation, but her pride and curiosity had made her step forward.

"No, of course not, you are a very well rounded student, and I have only heard praise for your name! That is quite curious, though, as I had sent out an invite for you dated a few weeks back," he said, scratching the top of his head in confusion. "Riddle assured me that he would pass it on..."

"Riddle?" Varya asked, bitting back her annoyance. Of course, who else would have kept her away from such a meeting?

"Well, yes! I had seen the two of you talk during class, and I thought it best it come from someone you were acquainted with. Ah, perhaps his overbearing schedule made it hard to pass on the invitation. Rest assured, in any case! It would be a pleasure to have you at my gatherings. A bright mind like yours must be celebrated. Oh!" he suddenly stopped, opening a drawer at his desk and searching for something. He pulled out a calendar, then placed it on the table. "And what a great time for you to ask! We are to meet in a fortnight before Halloween!"

Varya nodded, a pleased smile taking over her face, "I will make sure to attend. Thank you, professor!".

She turned around and made her way to the door, anger in her steps. Varya discerned that Riddle had begun playing an idle charade with her, a push-and-pull meant to rattle her, to have her show some sort of emotion towards his authority and control. There was a warning in his actions, something that, much like the poisoning of Ivy Trouche, suggested that Tom's connections sunk deep into the core of Hogwarts. He was a demigod amongst commoners, a reference to Ares' means of battle and his infamous cruelty, almost as if the Greek god had bestowed the Slytherin prefect with all of the weapons he needed to vanquish Hogwarts.

As she stepped outside the classroom, she was met with the stone-faced boy, who looked at her through narrowed eyes. Tom pushed himself off of the wall, hands crossed over his chest, then approached her slowly. He lowered his head, eyes coming down to her level, then smirked.

"I did not take you for a butter-up, Petrov. Thought your pride had already suffered greatly after cowering in fear for years," he said, voice taunting her. Her nostrils flared, indignation rising at his hubristic behavior.

"Perhaps," she spat, inching closer to him as she raised her eyes defiantly, "I would not have to take such actions, had you not stolen by invitation!"

The boy threw his head back, a sinister laugh echoing in the empty hallway. Then, he straightened his face, eyebrows raising in ridicule. He reached to his pockets and pulled out a purple envelope, sealed with candle wax.

"This?" he provoked her, turning around and starting down the hallway as the girl reached out for it. "Ah, I had forgotten, you see. As Slughorn said, I cannot help but be consumed by my schedule. I do not have time to send out your mail."

He threw it back, past his shoulder, and Varya caught it with her hands, almost hitting herself in the process. She followed the boy as he turned a corner, still infuriated by his toying.

"Then why say you were going to deliver it?" the witch inquired, already knowing that he had not planned to give it to her in the first place. Still, she found herself indulging his methods, trying to find answers behind his psychological mechanisms and defenses. Riddle relished in making fools of those around his, but an arrogant man did not waste time on those he found purposeless, and so Varya could only discern that his schemes involved her.

"You already know the answer to that. Do no act daft, Petrov, or I might think you to be the same as the rest of those bloody idiots," he said, gesturing to a crowd of Gryffindor students that were trying to sneak in a basket of snakes towards their tower.

Varya stopped in her tracks and watched Tom approach them with a lordly grace, hands clasped behind his back and quick steps. He stopped in front of them, scaring them with his surprising presence.

"And what do you think you are doing?" he asked, his voice threatening. One of the Gryffindors, a petite girl with a pixie's ears, stared at him in admiration. Her friend, a fourth-year boy, looked between the two of them with distaste. He put an arm around her waist, dragging her closer to him and away from Riddle.

"Nothing," the boy answered quickly, then looked down at the basket of snakes, a curse passing his lips as he realized the compromising position they had put themselves in. "I mean...nothing?" he tried again.

Tom scoffed, pulling the basket from his hands and giving him an imposing stare. "Ten points from Gryffindor," he said, then sent them away. He turned towards Varya, giving her a startled look as if he had forgotten she was there, then walked past her.

Varya scowled at his retreating back, "Very well, then, go enjoy your time with your reptile friends. Merlin only knows they might be the only ones who appreciate your presence."

***

Tom was livid, face tightening with unresolved fury as he passed the staircase's shadows. His hands gripped the basket's edges, ignoring the hisses of the creatures that were inside it, begging him to set them free. They were odes of vigor to his ears, voices, and proof of his heredity, and he let the tickling sensation caress his ego.

" _Soon_ ," he hissed at them, his mind working like a clock. His robe flew behind him, making him seem like a rabid bat stalking its pray, fangs glistening in the low light.

He stopped in front of the wall, his pant uneven as his skin burned, ached and buzzed with a need for vengeance. He let a sinister laugh pass his lips, throat clenching as he felt his pulse rise. He traversed the hall, letting his mind stray to his needs and desires, then stared at the door that appeared before him.

He stepped inside the Room of Requirement, slamming the door behind him as he marched towards the wooden table. He sat the cradle down, then turned to look at the three paled faces that occupied some of the chairs. Lestrange, Rosier, and Malfoy exchanged glances, aware that something was amiss.

Tom looked at them, a slight macabre smile ghosting his lips, then sat down at the end of the table. The fire burned the wood brightly, casting a dark shadow on the left side of his face. He leaned back, a sudden calmness overtaking him. The silence was deafening as the boys gawked at each other, waiting for their leader to speak.

"Who told her?" the blue-eyed wizard spoke, his eyes trailing all of their expressions. He leaned over the table, a small scoff escaping his pink lips. "Was it you, Lestrange? With your pathetic desire for her attention? Did you try to strike a conversation in your pitiful attempt at earning her affection?".

Icarus looked away, ears burning red with rage and embarrassment at the thought, but he kept quiet, shaking his head at the question. Tom sighed serenely, tutting at his follower as Lestrange cast his head down in disgrace.

 _As he should_ , he thought. Tom had remarked Lestrange's love-struck gaze as he observed Varya, watching her with awe in his eyes whenever she had the faintest trace of a smile on her face. He thought it vulnerable, absurd that he would be captivated by such a superficial thing as the girl's appearance, and could not help but feel as if it were an insult to her intellect.

Tom turned his head swiftly, resembling a watchful hawk, as his gaze fell on Abraxas Malfoy. His right-hand held his stare, spirit blooming from his eyes. Tom thought it to be senseless and smirked as his eyebrows lifted.

"Was it you, Malfoy?" he inquired in a patronizing tone, head inclined as he scrutinized him. "Was your pride hurt by her brilliance outshining yours? Did you want to boast of your glory and accomplishment, make her feel undermined?".

Malfoy's nostrils flared, but otherwise, he remained fashioned as he answered in a steady voice. "No, my lord."

Tom let his gaze fly to the last boy in the room, Rosier, who had a shameful glint in his eyes. The powerful wizard scorned, "It was you," he concluded, slowly standing up from his seat. "You who has nothing to offer dared defy me!"

His shout rang in the room, the waves bouncing off of the walls as nothing could be heard except the hissing of the impatient serpents. Tom made his way down the table, his hand wavering over it as he approached Renold.

"Malfoy, Lestrange, out!" he beckoned, waving his wand to send their chairs flying back towards the back of the room. The two followers exchanged a look, unsure of how to help their friend as he received the end of their leader's fury.

Malfoy shook his head. He _is alone; the_ unspoken message passed to Icarus, who reluctantly nodded. It had been Renold who had angered Tom Riddle, and it had to be Renold who felt his wrath. They both got up, leaving the room. As Lestrange shut the door, he said a small prayer for his friend.

Tom Riddle circled Ren, who kept his eyes towards the floor. The table began to tremble as the basket rattled with the maddened creatures. He had known, as soon as he told Varya about the order, that he had made an error.

Riddle stood behind Rosier, then leaned over the boy's shoulder to susurrate in his ear. "You must pay, do you not agree?" he said in a hushed voice. He sat up straight, looking at the basket, then with a wave of his hand, he sent off the top, letting the reptiles come out of their cage, raged by being held hostage. They slithered towards the two, and Renold felt his breath leave his body.

" _Enjoy yourselves, my creatures._ " the Parselmouth spoke, his somber speech filling the room.

Tom Riddle made his way back to his chair and sat down. As he admired the fire's blazing flame, he let the saccharine sound of Renold Rosier's cries fall upon his ears.


	11. chapter nine

Growing up, Varya had been told to beware of the demons that lurked in the school's shadows. She knew, of course, of the creatures that sauntered the fields, their bloodthirst making them peek through the shut blinds, luring the children's pure souls to come outside and play.

Her biggest phobia had been the _baubas_ , demonic ghosts who pried on innocence and naivety. Those monsters, although presumably fictional, hid _inside_ of the castle- under their wooden beds, in their small drawers, behind the stairs. They only came out at night, and they savored fear.

She had never seen one, but the maidens that took care of the apprentices would always tell her stories. Her young mind believed every word, and for the longest time, could not sleep until the rooster cried out in the early hours of the day, making her come out from underneath her blankets.

Then, as she grew older, she started fearing ghosts less and watching humans more. She realized, eventually, that the _baubas_ were nothing but a representation of the evilness that humankind had spun.

Ultimately, she found herself to be more alike to a ghost than a living person. She had always been of a weak body and a healthy mind, her tiny frame making her go unnoticed as a child. In her childhood, she had almost succumbed to pneumonia, coughing up for nights to no end until the village's healer accepted to see her. Even after healing, she would still struggle to breathe sometimes, dizziness becoming her reality more than an unusual occurrence.

Once her powers developed, she felt her strength build, but her presence had already been diminished. Varya was someone that was accustomed to hiding, to being a wallflower. She kept to herself, rarely speaking to people around her unless it was for class.

Furthermore, her presence was alike to a phantom as well, with slumped shoulders and tangled long black hair. Her face did not carry any light, and her dark eyes bore into those of her peers, emotionless and cold. Her voice was soft, much like a dream, melodious, and her skin was a translucent gray, weakened by the lack of sunlight in her castle.

Even so, her current state was uncharacteristically weak. Varya let her feet dangle off of her bed, too exhausted to drag herself onto it. Her head rested on one of her pillows, eyes closed, and she tried to breathe slowly, attempting to subside the throbbing pain in her temples. Still, she refused to go to the infirmary, not wanting to be forced to spend the night of Slughorn's gathering in a hospital bed.

Ivy watched her with concern from her bed, eyebrows downcasted at her roommate's obvious pain. She bit her lip, then got up and then dropped to her knees, looking underneath her bed. The blonde girl reached out with one hand, ignoring the disgust that crept at her as she felt the dusty carpet, and pulled out a small box.

She made her way to where Varya wailed in misery, then lifted her slowly despite the girl's avid protesting. Ivy helped her friend support herself on the bed's heading, then opened her box and took out a vial of liquid.

"Drink this," her honey voice let out, "It is a remedy against pain and sickness, it should help numb you out."

Varya grabbed in greedily, throwing her head back as she swallowed every drop of liquid. She wrinkled her nose in repugnance at its sharp taste but immediately felt the pain slip away.

"Beware, though, as it is known to make you drowsy," continued Ivy, placing the box on her nightstand, "It should get you through the night, but promise me that you will visit the hospital if you feel unwell again."

"I promise," answered Varya, slowly getting up and stretching. She looked, and the clock then sighed, dreading what was to come.

"Do you know what you will wear?" Ivy asked, making her way to her closet. She opened its doors, showcasing a multitude of splendid dresses. Varya gawked at them, mesmerized by their beauty. Her roommate giggled, then dug in her closet, pulling out an abundant, midnight azure dress. Varya marveled at its elegance, its silky material crossing over the chest with a darling neckline. A slit opened for one leg, and the waist clasped around her hips, making her shape stand out.

"I fear it might be too much," said Varya, worry already creasing her forehead.

"Nonsense, the evening is quite formal, men wear suits and women wear dresses. As it has always been," explained Ivy, who had attended a few SlugClub's meetings. She handed the dress off to Varya, then fashioned herself a deep red dress.

"Very well then," Varya murmured, turning around to promptly change into her attire. It weighed nothing against her skin, and she smiled as she moved smoothly around the bedroom. She turned around, then gasped.

Ivy stood against the chamber's dim light, carmine surrounding her as she twirled felicitously. Her locks hung loosely around her face, light strands ending right above her collarbones. Her face had the faintest shine of glimmer, dawn-tinted dust covering her protruding cheeks. Her charm was undeniable as she grinned at Varya.

Varya pulled at a long strand of raven hair, twirling it around her finger, suddenly feeling the weight of self-doubt rest on her shoulders. She glanced in the mirror briefly, looking at her figure as it swayed in the light, a small scowl on her face. She pressed a digit against her desiccated lips, picking at the skin.

"Stop doing that," came a kind voice from behind her, and she felt herself be pushed to stand on the edge of the bed. Ivy pulled her hair over her shoulders, freeing her face of any loose strands, then applied a soft cream to her lips. She dabbed a brush in a crimson jar, then gently swept it over Varya's pout, tracing its outline. Then, with a light brush, she twirled her hair and fixed it in delicate waves, letting her layers frame her face. "There, now stop glowering, it takes away from your charm.

Varya scoffed, "That is because I have no charm."

"Liar," taunted Ivy, grabbing her hand and pulling her out of their dorm. As they walked down the stairs to the Common Room, Varya noticed a few boys standing at the entrance, looking slightly restless.

Malfoy glanced up, then rolled his eyes. "About time," he said as he smoothened over his clothes.

"Were you waiting for us?" asked Ivy, feigning candor as she batted her sable eyelashes at him. That only earned her a scoff, though Varya did not miss the appreciative glance that Abraxas shot her roommate.

Varya let her eyes wander to the obscure figure that loomed in the corner and met a pair of marine orbs. Tom Riddle gazed at her solemnly, a stone-cold expression on his face as his eyes trailed down her attire. He shot her a pleasant half-smile, pushing himself off the wall and making his way to her.

As he towered over her, curls falling on his forehead, Varya felt her breath catch in her throat. He examined her closely, then extended out a hand towards her. Despite herself, the girl placed her delicate fingers out to his invite and watched in surprise as he laid a feathery kiss on her knuckles.

Tom did not say anything more as he turned around and stepped out of the room, his steps sounding in the hallway. Varya stood still, ignoring the unpleasant tug at her heart, and watched him disappear behind a corner.

"Varya?" Icarus' voice snapped her out of her daze, and she turned to find the boy looking at her softly. His gaze kept a promise that the girl did not know if she could keep, and as he extended his elbow out to her, she felt her heart twist.

Nevertheless, she took his offer, and they followed the steps of the rest of the group as they made their way down to Slughorn's gathering. Out of the corner of her eyes, Varya glanced at Lestrange, who had taken his time to tidy his hair and put on a suit.

He was beautiful, his skin radiating with an alluring shine, brunette hair falling in a chic hairstyle. And his copper-colored eyes carried more warmth in the moonshine, reflecting its soft radiance. Icarus conducted himself with an elegance that was uncharacteristic for his tender age, almost that of a man who held prominent self-reliance, and right now, his aura had no malice to it.

He turned his head and caught her gaze, giving her another small grin, and Varya noticed the slight blush that flooded from his cheeks to his ears. She turned her head, parting her lips in awe, unaware of the passion in the boy's eyes.

As they entered Slughorn's office, Varya's eyes widened at its extravagance. The grandeur made Dumbledore's chamber look like a broom cupboard, with its fine tapestry and leathered couches. A few other students had already arrived, and Varya made a note of their faces.

Maxwell Nott was, as always, twisting the pages of another book on one of the couches, ignorant of his surroundings. His dark suit fit him well, making his sharpness and intellectually stand out even more than usual.

Nicholas Avery stood at the table, already in a profound dialogue with Malfoy, as his eyes roamed the salon guardedly. His stature was unyielding, almost as if he was in a state of defense, and the tautness was noticeable in his jaw. His eyes landed on Varya, and they succinctly narrowed, before going back to Malfoy.

Two Ravenclaw prefects were chatting with Slughorn, and Varya recognized one of them as Della Beauchamp, a muggle-born witch in her fifth year. She had seen her in some of her classes and regarded her as a free spirit. They had never talked, however, as many muggle-borns tended to stray away from Slytherins. Now, as she observed the girl gesturing with enthusiasm at her story, she hoped that she could befriend such characters.

"Should I take your coat?" asked Icarus, and Varya felt guilt pool in her gut at neglecting him.

"Thank you," she said as she detached her robe and gave it to him, suddenly feeling strangely exposed.

She clasped her hands and bit her lip, then leisurely made her way around the room, glancing around anxiously. She greeted her professor, thanked him for the invite, and then sat down at the table opposite Malfoy and Avery.

Nicholas looked at her again, and Varya felt the weight of his stare as he seemed to break her into pieces and examine them. He cleared his throat, then extended his hand.

"Nicholas Avery," his voice was that of a baritone, and it had a raspiness to it, "I believe we have not introduced ourselves yet." Varya shook his hand, nodding at his statement.

"Varya Petrov," she answered, although she believed that he already knew her name, as most people did. Icarus came back then and took a seat next to her, nodding in acknowledgment at his friend.

"Yes, I have heard quite a bit about you," Avery continued, eyes flickering to Icarus, "You attended an outlandish school, am I correct?"

"Yes, Scholomance Academy of Dark Arts. It is a modest school in Transylvania," the girl answered, thanking Malfoy as he passed her a glass of liquid. She drank it slowly, using it as a commodity to not elaborate on her statement.

"Dark Arts, quite an engrossing topic. Were you trained in martial magic?" he questioned her, his mouth enunciating each word carefully.

"Indeed, I was. We studied it from our second year until I left."

Her eyes flew to the boy that approached them with grace, and her breath stopped as Tom Riddle sat on her right side, champagne class pressed lightly against his lips. In this setting, he seemed to command with his allure, his etiquette making him stand out amongst the crowd of students. His hair was styled back, lifting his features, and his tie stood rather loosely around his neck. He turned towards her, elbows resting on the table, and raised an eyebrow.

"What a wonder to be able to study such a subject and still choose to come here," he said, twirling the champagne flute in his hand. "As a matter of fact, why did you decide to leave?"

Varya scratched at her neck, feeling strangled by his stare, then cleared her throat. She hoped her nervousness was not apparent, though, by the ominous glint in Tom's eyes, she doubted that was true.

"There was much darkness surrounding the castle, not just magic, but demonic. Creatures like you have never seen..." she drew on, her gaze unfocused.

"Creatures?" asked Maxwell Nott as he took a seat beside Avery, acknowledging her existence for the first time since she had arrived. Unlike the rest of them who had fancied a tie with their suit, Maxwell had a loose silky scarf hang around his neck.

Between the five wizards, Varya felt outnumbered and defenseless, almost as if they had struck her from every direction. She felt her pulse quicken, frenzy slowly setting in and clouding her judgment. Then, Icarus placed a courteous hand on her lower back, his thumb massaging tenderly as to comfort her. Varya loosened lightly, then looked at the faces before her. Someone was missing.

"Where is Rosier?" she questioned, dumbfounded by his absenteeism. He was the one who had told her about the gathering in the first place, and she doubted he would have missed it.

Tom let out a dry chuckle, momentarily letting his eyes carry sinister thunder. "He is recovering. You see, poor Rosier does not do quite well with snakes, and when I let him take the basket out to the woods a few days ago, he panicked. I am afraid he suffered quite the gruesome bites. Alas, we all wish him a speedy recovery, do we not?" he probed his followers, who failed to meet his eyes but nodded to his question.

Varya looked at Tom, noticing the subtleness in his voice, then scoffed, taking the boys by surprise, "And am I supposed to believe that?".

She felt Icarus' hand freeze, then retract, and he leaned over to look at her. "Varya, I-"

"No," Tom raised his hand, quickly silencing him, "It is discourteous to interrupt a young woman, Lestrange. Let her vocalize her thoughts."

Varya noticed the parody in his timbre, taunting her as you would a naive child, but did not flatter as she spoke defiantly.

"I do not believe you, Tom. Not for a second." she spat, keeping her voice hushed as a Gryffindor passed them, giving her a strange look.

"Do not use my name, Petrov," Tom warned her, eyes flickering to his followers as they anxiously looked at the girl. He would not have someone openly undermine his authority.

"I do not know what you did," she said, "but I will find out."

"Is that a threat?" asked Tom through gritted teeth. The girl could tell that he was at the last of his wits, already hardening his gaze.

"Perhaps it is."

Slughorn approached them joyfully, boasting about a story that one of the Ravenclaw students had just told him, and took no notice of the combusting tension between the Slytherins. Ivy, however, was much more aware and shot Varya a questioning look as she sat down next to Abraxas Malfoy. Varya only glanced away, shutting her eyes and trying to calm down the hatred that she felt bubbling. She felt Icarus' eyes on her but pretended not to notice as she breathed out firmly.

The rest of the night passed on flatly, although Varya felt Tom Riddle watch her move like a bloodthirsty beast, waiting for her to make a mistake. He opposed everything she said, openly standing against her, and Varya could not help but glow with contentment at the fact that she had aggravated the prefect.

When the clock struck midnight, she hurried to pick up her cloak, not wanting to give any of the boys a moment to catch up. She threw it over her shoulder, then dashed out of the room, muttering a short goodbye to Slughorn.


	12. chapter ten

Varya smiled as she watched Alphard Black send a string of ornamental spiders towards his girlfriend, Ivy Trouche, as they helped decorate the Great Hall for the upcoming Halloween feast. The sandy-haired girl screamed, thrashing around with her hands as to get them off, then threw her boyfriend a scowl she did not quite mean.

"Merlin, you are so noisy," came the cry of Elladora Selwyn, her flaming hair covering her annoyed grimace as she brought in a box full of golden candles. She set it on the Slytherin table, then flicked her wand, making them soar above their heads.

"Are you bitter, Selwyn?" teased Black, before his girlfriend could let out a few colorful words.

"Of course, the one boy she has been interested in does not acknowledge her," answered Ivy, a scoff leaving her lips. Elladora narrowed her eyes, a silent warning towards the Slytherin prefect.

"You fancy someone, Ella?" asked Varya, stunned at the information. She had never seen the girl as much as glance towards any of their classmates. Elladora turned to her, a forced smile on her face.

"Do not listen to Ivy, my dear, she has been drinking too much butterbeer at Hogsmeade," she said politely, eyes widened in faux concern, "You were greatly missed on the trip, by the way. I hope you will join us next time."

Varya sat on the table, dangling her feet over the edge as she swung her wand around, arranging pumpkins on the edges of the room. She hummed silently, knowing well that she would probably not be attending any of their short escapades.

"Ah, Icarus would not stop with the saddened eyes," Alphard snickered, his eyebrows turning in mock distress. "Oh, will my dear Varya be lonely in that gloomy, freezing castle?"

Ivy laughed, playing along while making her voice an octave deeper, seemingly to imitate the Lestrange descendant, "Should I buy her this trinket? Would she relish it?".

Varya rolled her eyes at their dramaticism, knowing very well that Icarus was not the character that would spend his day agonizing over a girl. Although she had noticed his attention, she could not picture the prankster ever having any profound sentiment.

"Was Tom there?" she questioned, trying not to seem too interested as she kept sending spirals of fake bones towards the Gryffindor table. She had not seen the boy in the Common Room over the weekend and had only caught glimpses of him after Slughorn's party.

Elladora gave her a knowing look, "Tom does not usually join us either. As a matter of fact, I had suspected that you had stayed behind to spend time with him."

"Why would I do such a thing?" asked Varya, repulsed at what her roommate was implying. Elladora shrugged, not bothering to develop her thoughts.

"As if Varya would ever lower her standards for Riddle," said Ivy, her eyes holding pure hatred. She had not gotten over his meddling with her potion, and Varya knew she was planning on retaliation. Elladora rolled her eyes, dismissing her attitude.

"Riddle is not what you make of him, Trouche," she bit back, defensive.

"Oh, please! He is nothing but a scheming, controlling-" Black suddenly covered her mouth, pointing slightly to the figure that was approaching their table. Ivy frowned, not one to back down from a confrontation, but followed his lead and pretended to be distracted by the designs.

Riddle marched towards them, Nott and Avery trailing behind, and Varya marveled at the aristocracy that they pulsed. The three of them were arguably the most sophisticated of the group, and although Rosier was perhaps the representation of posh, Nott and Avery were real intellectuals.

Tom stopped to look at the progress that they had made with the Halloween Feast, then nodded, a pleased look on his face. He took out his wand and pointed it at the pumpkins that fenced the room, rearranging a few of them. Such a perfectionist, Varya told herself.

Almost as if he had heard her thoughts, the boy turned towards her and invited her to come closer with a swift hand motion. The girl hopped off her table, groaning as she knew that he would assign her more work to do. Tom Riddle took his prefect position seriously, perhaps to an extreme, and enjoyed delegating other Slytherins to do various tasks.

"Yes?" she grumbled, still resentful after their last conversation. She thought Tom felt the same way, as he avoided her stare.

"We need more cauldrons of sweets," he said, eyes trailing the empty tables. "Headmaster Dippet has asked me to go to the kitchens and ask the house-elves for more, but I am quite busy. I assume you can handle it, Petrov?"

Varya gritted her teeth at his disdainful stare- he looked down at her as if she was a fragile child that could not fend for herself. Nevertheless, she nodded, happy to distance herself from the festivities for a second. She had not visited the kitchens yet and was genuinely delighted to do so.

She made her way to leave the hall, not bothering to give him a verbal reply. The kitchens were beneath the Great Hall, and as she walked inside, she smiled at the smell of delicacies that filled the room. The high ceilings, almost as grandiose as the feast chamber, were covered in pots and pans, and she watched as the elves scrambled across the floor, running from one appliance to another.

"No! No!" she heard a squeaky voice yell, then felt a tug at her robes as a gaunt elf tried to drag her away. "No students! No students!".

Varya chuckled, then lowered herself down to meet him with gentle eyes, "I was sent by the Headmaster! He wanted to know if you have any candy cauldrons left."

The elf looked at her, its enormous ears flat against its head as it glanced around in alarm. Then, it hopped towards one of the tables, dragging Varya after.

"Rocky knows where they are!" the elf chanted, as he pointed a boney finger towards a cupboard. Varya directed her wand at it, opening it suddenly and making a few small bonbon cauldrons fly above their heads.

"Thank you!" she beamed at the tiny creature, then reached in one of the cauldrons and took out a candy bar, handing it to the elf, who seemed terrified at taking it.

"It is all right; it will be our little secret," Varya said in a hushed voice, winking at the elf as she watched it gleam at the candy, eventually accepting it and hiding it in its shredded uniform.

"Miss is so generous!" the elf cried, glistening pearls falling from his eyes in gratitude. "Oh, such kindness! Rocky will remember!"

Varya smiled, her heart piercing for the hapless elf, who had obviously not been on the receiving end of much sympathy. She thanked Rocky, then made her way back to the hallways, a set of candy containers floating behind her. She passed a few first-year Hufflepuffs, who pointed excitedly at the sweets and let out small gasps. They trailed behind her, shoving and laughing.

Varya's felt a cordial sensation overtake her as she realized that, for the first time in a while, she felt much like a child, giddiness pulsing through her veins. She felt light, almost as if she was floating, and radiated a felicitous glow.

One of the classroom doors opened, and Varya gave Icarus a warm smile, her skin twinkling at the sight of his faint blush. He bowed his head at her, then looked at the first-years who were watching them with attentive eyes.

"Sod off!" he joked, sending an innocent spell towards them, only to frighten them off. Varya snickered, then gently pushed him, not wanting to enable his troublemaking.

"They are children!" she said, eyes almost disappearing as she smiled.

"Well, I felt quite judged," Icarus joked, his hand flying to his chest in sham hurt, "and anyhow, they should be in class, not following beautiful girls around the school!"

Varya blushed, her heart hammering at the compliment. She did not know why, but after Lestrange had made that small gesture of comfort during her confrontation with Tom Riddle, and even dared try to speak out for her, she had been much more sensitive towards him.

They walked side by side towards the Great Hall, chatting enthusiastically about their day. Presumably, a fourth-year Gryffindor had set the Divination professor's robes on fire, and nobody knew how it had happened, as the task was to solely look in a crystal globe and "envision the future."

"Have you heard that professor Dumbledore is considering adding an Alchemy class?" Lestrange suddenly asked, his ragged voice making the girl shiver. "Will you join? It lets you drop an elective."

"I do not know," she answered truthfully, as she immensely enjoyed Care for Magical Creatures and Study Of Ancient Runes. "Do you think he would let me take on another class?"

"If anyone can do it, it will definitely be you," he complimented her, watching with delight as the girl went red at his praise.

They arrived at the Great Hall, and Varya's eyes folded in size when she saw Tom Riddle standing on a table, swinging his wand around as he charmed multiple flying bats to cover the hall's ceiling, screeching and rippling their wings.

"Heads down!" screamed someone, and Varya ducked just in time. Icarus, who was not paying attention, was not as fortunate, and Varya watched as a bat flew to his face, its little legs clasping at his robes and pulling in alarm.

Della Beauchamp, the other prefect girl from Slughorn's party, and a phenomenal Transfiguration student, immediately converted the bat back to a lollipop, then gently picked it off of Icarus' robes, popping it into her mouth much to the boy's disgust.

"That is a bat!" he said, horrified, face morphing in displeasure.

"Is not," she said nonchalantly, then smiled. "Ah, a mighty Slytherin saved by a low muggle-born, what a sight."

Varya snorted, shocked by the girl's courage, whose eyes only twinkled with mischief, and she suddenly wondered why she had not been placed in Gryffindor. Lestrange huffed, then stormed off to join Nott and Avery as they placed a few dancing skeletons around the room.

Della giggled, "You know, I expected more of a fight, but I suppose there was not much to retort."

"He will be embarrassed for a while," Varya admitted while crossing her arms.

Della nodded, looking at Icarus, who was still bright red. Then, she turned towards Varya, a toothy grin covering her face.

"Della Beauchamp," she said, eagerly shaking Varya's hand. "I saw you at Slughorn's party, and I just had this feeling, you know. Oh! I must talk to this girl; she seems quite special. Nevertheless, you were surrounded by Riddle and his fellow Slytherins, and I felt they might not appreciate my presence."

"Funny thing, I was thinking similarly," Varya admitted, remembering her first impression of the Ravenclaw prefect, who seemed to be the light of the room at the somber party. Shamefully, she had not approached her, too preoccupied with Tom.

"Well then, let this be the beginning of not only a blossoming friendship but also a statement." Della pronounced dramatically, her luminous energy infecting the ghostly girl.

The Headmaster walked through the doors, followed by most of the school's teachers, and Varya bid Della a short goodbye, as she walked to her house's table. She sat beside Elladora, who was making the last few touches in beautifying the table.

Students started to flow into the room, marveling at the beautiful decorations. The bats had settled their craze and now flew around the room serenely, some hanging from the strips of siders that Alphard had conjured. A few skeletons walked around the salon, dancing merrily due to the spells of the Gryffindors. The pumpkins had been carved ever-so-perfectly by the knowledgeful Ravenclaws, and the Hufflepuffs had asked the ghosts to join the feast, providing the hall an eerie atmosphere.

The Great Hall stood pridefully awake, students looking around in joviality at the celebratory decorations, muttering words of flattery. As the ghosts passed the tables, humming delicate medieval songs, and the skeletons rocked their bones to the tune, the atmosphere of the room resembled that of a festive gathering.

Varya sighed in contempt, admiring the finished product of their work and collaboration, then looked at the teachers' table, where the Headmaster congratulated the prefects for their quick coordination.

She caught Dumbledore's eye once again, much as she always did when in the dining room, and gave him a slight nod, letting him know that she was still working on his task. Truthfully, Varya knew that she had not made much progress with Riddle in the past two months, unless the subtle threats and tension were what Dumbledore had thought of when he had asked her to change Tom Riddle, but it could not be helped.

Varya found Tom infuriating, and her own nature did not let her back down from his constant manipulation and menacing words, feeling the need to match him. She was horrified of the possibility of failure, and with each passing day, Tom only grew more sinister.

I shall try my best, then, she concluded and watched the Slytherin prefects make their way back towards them; Armando Dippet's voice boomed through the room, announcing the beginning of the feast. He clapped his hands dramatically, and a variety of delicacies appeared on the table, making the students gasp in awe.

Varya, who had never attended a feast before coming to Hogwarts, shared the same glee as the first-years, as her eyes fell on the assorted pumpkin pastries, stuffed turkey, and vegetable stew. The smell was intoxicating, and the students took no time to cheerfully dive in.

The Slytherin table roared with laughter as everyone chatted brightly, sharing stories of ghost encounters or tales of dark monstrosities. To the iniquitous house, Death Day was as cheerful as Christmas, as they submerged themselves in wicked terror and goosebumps-inducing stories.

"Wait, wait!" came the voice of Renold Rosier, and Varya felt her nerves settle slightly as he appeared to have gotten back to his feet after a week of absence. "I have heard all of your godforsaken stories for years, and no, Lestrange, I do not want to hear about how you terrified your baby cousin with your pranks."

A rumble of agreement passed amongst the table, and Icarus simply rolled his eyes, mumbling to himself about someone not enjoying a good story.

"This year, we have a newcomer, and not just any," Rosier continued, his hands gesturing towards Varya," but one that happened to live in some of the darkest woods known to the wizarding world, amongst dragons and strigoi. Why not let her speak?".

Varya looked around, meeting the expectant gazes of her peers, then shook her head, not wanting to dwell on her past. Ren was not wrong; she realized with half a heart that she probably knew many more tales than the rest.

"Oh, do not be like that," said Elladora, who had taken to brewing some tea with her wand, then passed Varya a warm cup. "I am sure everyone here is just as curious as I."

Varya sighed, her eyes getting lost for a second, before meeting the darkness of Tom Riddle, who looked at her with some interest. Suddenly, a story came to mind, and she laughed at the painful irony of it.

"Very well," she began, earning cheers from those who surrounded her. By now, a small crowd had formed, eager to hear the frightening stories of the Dark Church. "But I must warn you, this is not for the light-hearted." she joked.

"Good thing this is the not the Hufflepuff table!" someone quipped from the crowd, and Varya frowned at the distasteful humor before starting her story.

"As you might know, Eastern Europe carries a great variety of tales, but growing up, I was always captured by one in particular: Koschei the Deathless." she started, immediately noticing the crippling silence that fell around the table as every pair of ears perked at her story, curious. "A long time ago, when the plague still corrupted the lands of Europe, many wizards watched their numbers grow smaller and smaller by the day. Although they had magic in their blood, it did not seem to shelter them from the horror of their worst enemy- death."

Varya let her eyes wander to Tom, who oversaw her, drinking in on her words. "But Koschei, a powerful sorcerer, did not want to fall to its fate, and so he decided to strive for something that most could not even phantom. Immortality."

"Oh, I like this," came a sneer from the crowd, and Varya saw a seventh year Slytherin girl rest her head in her palms, invested in the story.

"He searched endlessly, maddened by his fear of death until he came upon a book, a dark book, that had been kept in the ruins of a church. It told tales of greatness, and although it carried enough knowledge to ensure that Koschei would become the most powerful wizard, he only cared for one thing. Eventually, he came across a passage that told him how to preserve his existence, to become stuck in time."

"How?" questioned Alphard Black as he put a protective arm around Ivy.

"By splitting his soul into pieces," Varya said, a grave note in her voice, "and stuffing them into objects of his choice."

She tried her best not to look at Tom Riddle, who had stiffened, his breath coming out softly as he leaned towards her, almost as if he was in a trance. Varya could not help herself, however, and met his eyes. She shivered, taken aback by the lunatic glare that possessed them, his mental grasp breaking.

"Go on," he urged her, and if anyone noticed the sudden change in his demeanor, nobody made a remark on it.

"And so he did just that," she continued, trembling slightly under Tom's powerful gaze. "He split his soul and placed a piece in a needle, which he placed in an egg, which in turn he hid in a duck, who got stuffed in a rabbit. Then, the rabbit was placed in a crystal chest and dug beneath an old oak tree."

"Wait, a needle in an egg, in a duck, in a rabbit and then in a chest? That makes no sense," said Maxwell Nott, scoffing at the irrational story.

"It is a story, you rogue! It is not supposed to make sense," answered Ivy, hitting Nott over the head.

Varya ignored them, then continued. "But you see, there was a price to pay for immortality. Nature required balance, so Koschei became a deformed monster, his face much alike to that of a creature. The villagers took notice of it, and eventually, Marya, a warrior princess, captured him and chained him down in one of her mason's chambers, locked away from the world."

"That cannot possibly be the end," scoffed Tom Riddle, annoyed at Varya's retelling. "A powerful wizard gets taken by a frail woman?"

"Well, first of all, she was a warrior," Varya bit back. "And I did not say it was the end, let me finish! Regardless, eventually, Marya met a man, Prince Ivan, a mere human, and they fell in love. When she was called to war, she left him at home, but not before warning him to keep away from the locked door. Despite this, Ivan's human nature took the best of him, and his curiosity made him open the chamber, inevitably releasing the monster that was Koschei."

"Bloody muggles," breathed out Rosier, annoyed at Ivan's daftness.

"Koschei the Deathless killed the man in cold blood, cutting him into pieces and stuffing him in a barrel- then, he dumped his body in the sea. When Marya came back, she was heartbroken, and she swore to take revenge. She sought out the chest and dug it up, opening it slowly. She chased the rabbit and killed it, then, she caught the duck and cut its head. Eventually, she took the egg and smashed it, while also breaking the needle that nested Koschei's soul."

"She set on a journey against the most powerful wizard of all time because her lover was killed?" scoffed Riddle, unimpressed. "Love, such a fault."

"Well actually, it made her brave," retorted Varya, aware of the Slytherin eyes that watched the two argue. "And I am still not done, Riddle. Eventually, Ivan's sisters heard of his faith, and they had married powerful wizards. They asked them to resurrect the Prince, and they obeyed, bringing him back to life and reuniting him with Marya. Then, the two of them set out to find Koschei the Deathless, who had laid a rampage over a nearby village. They confronted him and took him down with a swing of their swords."

The students clapped cheerfully, delighted by the tale, but Tom continued to scowl, obviously displeased by the ending.

"That is ridiculous," he concluded, slowly getting up from his chair. "You mean to tell me that all it took to defeat a dark sorcerer was...love?" He spat the words at her, ignoring the concerned looks of his followers. Tom Riddle was acting out of his pretended character, his impeccable appearance cracking.

"Losing those you care for can truly change you, Riddle," said Varya, looking him dead in the eye.

Tom Riddle clenched his jaw, scoffing at the girl's foolishness. His mind twirled and spun, thoughts flying around and crashing into each other; as he looked at her, a newfound intrigue set in. What did this girl know of immortality? Moreover, how did her story manage to be so similar to his current conquest? She was hiding something, Tom was sure of it, and at that moment, he swore to find out, even if it meant breaking her into pieces.


	13. chapter eleven

The darkness crawled through the thick, wet branches, rivaling the moonlight. As the wind lashed against the last few leaves that stuck to the scrawny twigs of the trees, rain fell from the sky in small, cold droplets. The night was unforgiving; the cold scratched at Varya's skin as she sauntered her way around the Forbidden Forest, dark wood wand in her hand. Her fieriness had been extinguished by the howls of the creatures that walked the grounds, and now, in her place, there was only a frightened teenage girl.

The midnight hour chimed in the static air, sending ripples of terror to echo through the abandoned woods. The crows cracked, voices hoarse and rusty, their twisted necks peeking through the openings and turning to watch the young girl.

Varya's robes ruffled in the wind, and the rain made them stick to her skin. Her hair fell around her face in dark, clustered strands, sticking against her open lips as her teeth chattered. The cold had settled in her bones; her body felt heavier with each tentative step. As her onyx eyes searched her surroundings frantically, her breath came in more urgently.

She had heard it much like a whisper at first, a calling with no words. Then, it pounded against her skull, shrieking, crying, begging for her to follow it. Almost as if pulled by an invisible string, she headed to the woods, wearing nothing but her sleepwear and robes.

Now, the girl realized her feet were bare, and she curled her toes against the glacial earth, ignoring the harsh bite of frost. They were numb, and if they had suffered any cuts, she would not be able to tell.

It was not a voice that had called out to her, no, it was a presence. Furthermore, it was heinous, almost in a taunting way. Varya should have known better; she had heard many stories of children wandering off into the night and never returning. Hell, she had almost been one herself. Even so, the call was strong, magnetic, and the more she ignored it, the more she felt as if she was suffocating. Was her mind weak? Had she let her guard down because she was not at her old academy anymore?

She stood in the middle of the forest, too far from the castle for anyone to even hear her if she screamed until her voice left her. And for a moment, she prayed that they would at least find her body.

Varya did not hear it coming; she did not feel the wind pick up at its presence, nor did she hear the bushes rustling as it walked closer to her. She did not even hear it as it dragged its shattered legs across the forest floor, slithering closer to her.

No, she only felt its breath against her neck.

She trembled as the creature dragged its finger across her cheek, which had been so rotten that it was bone that she felt against her skin.

" _Why are you so far from home_?" it asked, and Varya felt herself go still at the sound of its voice. It was melodious, divine even, the voice of a lovely woman, but as it leaned slightly over Varya's shoulder, she could see its flesh slowly ripping from its cheekbones.

Crazed eyes looked at her, almost obsessive, and the creature's smile was psychotic, stretched out far beyond normal. Perhaps, the fact that half of its face had been clawed off, muscles torn and ligaments on display, allowed for more facial freedom.

" _I know you_..." the ghost went on, circling her slowly. Varya closed her eyes, her stomach turning at the sight of the mutilated face.

She knew what it was; she had seen similar faces in books. It was a _mavka_ , and the knowledge made Varya's skin crawl because if she did not get out of here fast enough, she doubted that whatever was left of her would be recognizable. _Mavkas_ were destroyed souls that had died horrible, premature deaths and sought out to lure people into the woods and give them the same fate. Usually, they had beautiful faces and long, dark hair that they would let flow in the wind. They would ask you for a comb, and if you did not have one, they would rip your throat out slowly, letting you choke on your blood.

"Why did you call for me?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady as she felt the creature's fingers pull at her hair, slowly tugging on her wet strands. The rain was still coming down on them, and it was more arduous now, muffling out their surroundings, and Varya could feel her heartbeat.

" _He is coming_ ," it laughed maniacally, now pulling at the girl's hair harder, making her lean over so that she could shriek in her ear. " _He is coming; he is coming, he is coming. He is coming for you_."

Varya felt her eyes water out of horror, and her jaw clenched as she bit back a scream of pain and terror. The ghost wrapped her hand around her neck, scarifying at it, but not digging its fingers in it. Then, it snapped her chin towards it, and Varya's eyes flew open.

It was maddened, and it stared at her with big, malevolent eyes, as it breathed laboriously and laughed in her face. Her hand tightened, and Varya's hands flew to claw at it, but she felt herself being overpowered.

He is coming. He is coming. He is coming. It chanted vigorously, spit and blood flying from its wretched mouth. Varya reached out for her wand, and with as much strength as she could, she cast out a spell. _Confringo_. The curse hit the creature in the chest, making it screech in pain as it was blasted away from the girl. Although the curse could not tear a non-corporal being into pieces, it was powerful enough to push it away from her.

Varya clasped at her neck, breathing heavily, and watched as the _mavka_ grew angrier. Then, she started running for her life, ignoring the pain of the twigs and branches drawing at her skin. Her bare feet hit the ground forcefully, and she felt the tears of fright cascade down her face as the turbulent moans grew closer.

She kept running, not caring if she was going in the right direction; she just knew she had to get away from the monster. The leaves rustled behind her, and just as she felt a hand almost grab her robe, she broke through the line of trees, the castle standing on the rocky edge.

Varya did not stop, not until it was stone that she felt underneath her legs and not grass, and when her body collided one of the school's walls softly, she turned around and looked at the forest.

The _mavka_ was watching her, eyes ablaze with fury, mouth opened wide in a scream of anguish. She watched it trash around out of derangement, hands waving around as it resembled a rabid animal.

Varya sobbed, clutching at her chest as she felt her breath grow heavy. She was afraid, no, she was utterly terrorized, and she let herself slide against the wall, her body growing fatigued as the adrenaline slowly diffused out of her bloodstream.

***

Her eyelids fluttered awake when she heard the early song of birds, and she felt the faint rays of the December sun hit her frozen face. The pavement was brumal, and a soft layer of morning frost covered her surroundings. The rooster did not sing, but the hum of nature was everpresent.

Her robes were still drenched, and she felt the iciness of her lungs as she drew in her breath. Varya realized she had slept outside, the early winter weather not being a bother, and for a second, she felt at harmony in the serenity of the early hours. The wind was mellower, and the scent of rain and the alkaline lake made her stuffy head spin. Small drops of dew fell from the nearby plants, hitting the stone floors of the castle's entrance with a dulcet sound.

Her body throbbed as she slowly got up, bones cracking with every move, and her head spun for a second as she sat up straight. Her vision fogged over, and she grabbed on to the wall to support herself.

Slowly, Varya made her way back into the castle, dragging her feet as she looked around for students. Thankfully, it seemed to be too early for any of them to awake. She opened the door to the stairs that lead to the Dungeons, then went down slowly. As she entered the Common Room, she welcomed the warmth that came from the glowing fire, melting away the frostiness that had stiffened her limbs.

"Where have you been?"

Varya turned around to face Nicholas Avery, who stood at the table in the middle of the room, and she saw the multitude of parchments open before him. She made her way towards him, then plopped herself down on one of the seats, too exhausted to answer while sitting up.

"Out," her voice was guttural, and she cringed at the unnatural sound. Nicholas scrunched his nose in revulsion, then conjured a pot of tea. He leaned over to pick up his bag, then took out a jar of perfume herbs, which he let fall in one of the cups. Using his wand, he heated it up, then stirred it slowly before handing it over to the girl.

"Why do you have dry blood on your face, then?" he asked again, and Varya gasped as her hand flew to her cheek. As soon as her fingers touched it, she felt pain radiate. Her hand came back with dark red bits, and she wiped them on her damp clothes. "And why are your clothes soaked?"

"Are you not ever so meddlesome?" the girl scoffed as she put the cup to her lips, letting the fiery liquid slip down her burning throat. "I was out in the forest."

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, "I knew you were a bit of a bumpkin, Petrov, but I did not take you for a fool."

Varya glared at him, unappreciative of his words. "A bit of a bumpkin? I grew up in an academy, Avery, not in the sewers. And even so, it is funny of you to question my intelligence when I have outdone you so many times."

The boy smirked, then sank back in his chair as unbothered as possible. "I prefer to use my intellect for other establishments and pursuits. I will leave academics to you and Riddle."

"Really? Things such as what, scheming and conniving?" Varya laughed bitterly, well aware of her classmate's antics. The boy pretended to zip his lips, then gave her a severe look.

"Stop being so elusive, what were you doing in the woods?" he asked, voice grave.

Varya let out a sigh, playing with her cup and wondering if she should be honest with the boy. She felt the need to talk to someone, share her traumatic experience, and perhaps make it seem more like a story than reality.

"I heard a call," she began, her eyes drawn to the window behind the boy that showcased the deep lake. "Not even a call, it was not a voice. It was a feeling, fairly dark, and it reached out to me and made me pursue it. So I ended up in the forest."

"And whatever it was, it gave you that foul gash?" Nicholas asked, suddenly intrigued.

"Yes," the girl deadpanned. "It was a creature, and now that I think about it, I cannot comprehend what it was doing in these parts of Europe. It is not commonly found here. Scratch that, it never wanders this far West."

"That is curious," the boy hummed.

Varya nodded, mind racing back to the ghost's words. They had not been a warning, no, more of a threat than anything, and the girl could not piece them together. Who was coming, and why had the ghost called out for her?

"I believe there might be a reason," the Slavic girl stated, observing as Nicholas scribbled a few words down on his scrolls, which he kept ever so slightly turned away from her. "What time is it?"

"Early morning, perhaps close to five," the boy muttered, eyes darting to the clock on the wall. "Yes, the hour approaches five."

"And what are you doing here, so early? I did not take you for a morning person." Varya probed, still trying to glimpse at his work. He scoffed at her, then started gathering his scrolls, stuffing them in his neat bag.

"Usually, I prefer working here in the mornings; there is hardly anyone around. Today, however, I have been rudely interrupted." Nicholas answered, and Varya took a moment to look at him. His inky hair curled at the ends, shorter on the sides, while his middle-length strands fell over his forehead in a snug curl. His eyes were ungracious and alarmingly vacant for a boy his age; they seemed to scrutinize her every move. Now, out of school uniform, he looked more worn, his dark sweater contrasting against his skin.

"You were working on something," the girl continued in a matter-of-fact tone, and she watched his gaze flicker to her, slight irritation pooling in.

"I was," he said with a stentorian voice, almost as if he had authority over her. "But you should not focus on what I do, Petrov. You might find yourself horribly disappointed in my character."

"You sound so mighty and threatening, one might forget you are just a boy," she taunted, and he gave off another grunt.

"A boy? With the way most of us grew up, I would be surprised if there were even a speck of innocence left. Everyone thinks that being part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight brings only prestige and glory, but even as children, we learn to do our parents bidding. None of us are sane; I can tell you that."

Avery kept his composure, almost proud of his agonizing childhood, his eyes glistened with dignity. Varya, however, had a knack with figuring pain, and she did not miss the speckles of exertion that danced around the edges of his vision.

"It comes with the territory," she stated.

"It does," Avery hummed, appreciative of her understanding. He regarded her for a moment, watching her sip on the last drop of tea, and he hid his smirk. He did not trust her, regardless of what some of his friends said. Varya seemed to be a conniver, and she had a way of figuring people out. In a way, she was alike to Tom, but where the boy wallowed in the darkness that surrounded them, she kept distant from it. And that drove Avery insane.

The clock chimed, signaling that the fifth hour had arrived, and the mechanic sound echoed through the silent room. The soft ticking droned through the air, and, for a second, both teenagers held their breath, listening to the muteness that enveloped them. Varya watched as one the tapestries moved, and medieval wizards cast glorious spells towards a stupendous creature that stalked the skies. The scene kept repeating itself, a continuous loop of battle showcasing.

"You said the beast called out to you?" Avery's voice made her flinch, as she had been entranced by the tapestry scene. Varya's head turned towards him, and she saw him grimacing at nothing in particular.

"Of sorts," she affirmed, "It was as if it pulled me towards the woods, and not obeying its call made me feel as if I was smothering."

"But why would it call for you?" he asked, focusing his eyes on her face, preparing to tell if she was lying to him.

"I do not know, Avery," she said sincerely. He hummed, tapping a finger against the table as he thought for a second.

"I believe you should speak to Maxwell of this," he said, earning a scoff from the girl. "What is it?"

"That boy acts as if my presence in the room is merely passable," she chuckled dryly, eyebrows lifting, "I do not know if we have exchanged more than the common pleasantries."

"Of course, Nott is not one to regard people as much more than a bother, but he is well versed in books, and I believe we have a mystery on our hands," Avery said, slowly standing up from his seat. "He could help is what I am saying."

Varya nodded, watching as he got his bag from the ground and wrapped it over his shoulder. "Thank you."

He saluted her, then made his way up the stairs to his room, letting the door shut behind. Varya let her gaze wander to where he had sat, thinking of his words with intent. Yes, it was correct that the incident raised many questions, and it bugged her.

She leaned over, letting her chin rest in her palms. It was anomalous, and the girl could not find the reasoning behind it. Her skin crawled at the memory of the boney finger that had touched her cheek, and she suspected it was that which had given her a cut.

Suddenly aware of her untidy appearance, she got up and headed to one of the showers, greedy to scrub her skin raw until she could not remember the creature's hands grasping her. Varya took off her robes, then her sleeping attire, and winced at the reddened skin underneath it. In certain patches, the robe had stuck to some of her open cuts, and the fiery feeling of ripping it off made her head spin.

Her nightrobe was dirty, covered in mud and dried blood, and she wondered if Avery had noticed that it was not just her cheek that bled. She raised it to her nose, sniffing it, then threw it to the ground rapidly. Her eyes watered at the rancid smell, and she hoped it had not upset the boy.

Finally, she stepped into the shower, turning on the water to scald her skin, and she brushed at her coiled hair, pulling at the knots. Her skin was suddenly of pins and needles as she remembered the Mavka's hands pulling at her strands. There, in the comfort of her home, she let out a soft cry.


	14. chapter twelve

Ivy Trouche was beaming as she turned around, showing Varya her Quidditch attire proudly. Her blonde hair fell over her shoulders, and against the emerald color of the Slytherin house, it seemed to glow even brighter than typical. They were sitting in their room, and Elladora was on Varya's bed, picking at her nails in indifference.

"You know," Varya started, suddenly bubbling with laughter. "Sometimes, I think you might be related to Malfoy; you look so similar."

Ivy scowled, but Elladora smiled at the notion, nodding to confirm her thoughts. "I agree, but I would not be shocked if they were."

"How come?" questioned the raven-haired girl, picking up a book off the nightstand that stood beside her bed. She had been visiting the library quite often in the past few days, trying to find some sort of book that might explain the oddity from the beginning of the week. Up until now, she had not been successful, but as she stared at the Most Macabre Monstrosities book, she felt hope pulse through her body.

"Were you not aware of the severe interbreeding that happens between the Sacred-Twenty Eight? I would be surprised if half of us were not distant cousins or something akin to that," answered Elladora, rolling her eyes at the look Ivy shot her.

"Bloody hell, Selwyn, do not say that!"

"Why, afraid Black is your three-times removed cousin?"

Varya let them squabble in the background, already used to their antics. She flung herself on her bed, opening her book, and relishing in the way its leather binding felt against her palms. Elladora moved to make room for her on the bed, then looked at what she was reading.

"What are you studying?" she asked, trying to peek at the title.

"Most Macabre Monstrosities," answered Varya, flipping another book page as she skimmed over it. Elladora's eyes enlarged, but if she thought anything, she did not say a word.

Ivy's dulcet voice came from the other end of the room, asking Varya to help her get cat hair off her uniform. They had practice in a few minutes, and the girl was running around the room in a hurry, trying to get everything in order.

Elladora rolled her eyes at the girl, and Varya got up to help her friend. "That is my cue to leave," said the cherry-haired girl as she swayed her feet off the bed and on to the ground. Varya bid her goodbye and headed to her other roommate, whose eyes were watery and slightly swollen.

"It has to be cat hair," she said, pulling at her uniform. "It is making my allergies go mad."

"But I cannot see any," Varya admitted, fingers feeling the shirt's material for hair. "And besides, nobody here has a cat."

"Alphard's dreadful roommate does, he hides it whenever I visit, but I swear Varya if that little rat laid its paws on my Quidditch uniform," Ivy fumed, words muttered through gritted teeth.

"Perhaps it is something else," Varya concluded, giving up the search.

"I am only allergic to two things, Varya," Ivy said, pulling her shirt over her head and throwing it to the side. She still had her turtleneck on, but she pulled at its collar aggressively. "And unless you happen to have some witch's berry on you, I doubt it is anything but cat hair."

"Witch berry?" Varya asked, frowning at the unknown name.

"Yes, it is a plant, and I am allergic to it," Ivy answered, making her way to her closet trunk to pull out a spare uniform.

"It sounds vaguely familiar," the other girl admitted as she went back to her bed, eyes trailing after her roommate's fanatic figure.

"Yes, you might know it as Belladona; we use it in Potions class sometimes. I always have to give Slughorn a slip to excuse myself from those lessons or drink a resistance potion from the infirmary," her eyes darted around the room, a small aha! leaving her lips once she spotted her gloves in Elladora's bed. The girl had a bad habit of borrowing her roommate's things without asking. "By the way, has your illness subdued?"

"Yes," Varya lied, knowing that her roommate would have scolded her otherwise. Truthfully, she had gotten better briefly, but after spending the night in the rain, her sickness had returned, and Varya was once again a jumble of thoughts.

"Good, you still look a bit pale, no offense, but I think you are just adjusting to the Scottish climate," Ivy said, then picked up her broomstick. "Walk with me?"

"Sure, let me just grab my book," Varya smiled, then turned to where she thought she had left her book. When she could not see it, she pouted, confused at its disappearance. "Ivy, did you happen to see my library volume?"

The blonde shook her head, then urged her to leave as she was already late for her practice. Varya brushed it off, deciding to look for it when she came back to her dorm. She picked up her school bag, then exited after her roommate.

As they walked down the hallway, they chattered happily about their week, and when Varya admitted that she had never ridden a broom, Ivy gasped, then raved about how she would teach her friend how to use one. She continued to talk about the freeing feeling of flying, waving her hands around enthusiastically, and Varya smiled, grateful for her presence.

Then, her friend's face went solemn.

"Varya, I have not brought this up in a while, because it always seemed as if there were other people around us, but I cannot help myself anymore," she said, voice fallen below a whisper. "Tom has been getting to Alphard lately, trying to get him to join his gang of misfits. I think they might be doing it to spite me; I would not put it past them. However, Alphard feels pressured to join. You see, he is a Black, and if the rest of the Sacred Twenty-Eight heirs are forming some group, his parents will have him join."

"What about your parents?" asked Varya, knowing of her friend's origins.

"My parents are more troubled with me learning how to waltz and be a socialite. They think women are accessories and should act accordingly. Bunch of old gargoyles, outdated views." she huffed, annoyed at her predicament.

"And what do you want us to do?" Varya questioned, still hesitant about her friend's plan. They stopped before the entrance to the Quidditch field, checking if anyone was listening.

"I think you should get close to Riddle," Ivy said, and Varya almost laughed at the paradox. Yes, getting close to Tom. That was her task, was it not? Nevertheless, whenever she tried to approach the boy, he seemed to grow extremely reserved. Thinking back, perhaps threatening to expose his secrets and alluding to his plans through a story were not her best moves, but she could not help herself.

She had not spoken to Tom Riddle since the Halloween feast, and whenever they were in the same room, the tension churned, threatening to spill over the edge. In every class, they pretended the other was not present, and that irritated Varya to no ends. She did not know why, but she did not relish how the boy suddenly behaved as if she was not in the room, joining the ranks of Abraxas Malfoy and Maxwell Nott, who also seemed to not pay notice to her.

Ever since her dialogue with Avery, she had made a practice of hanging out at the library for longer hours, trying to catch sight of either Nott or Riddle, but they both seemed to evade her, almost as if they knew that she was looking for them. It was a misplaced game of cat and mouse, and Varya was growing bored.

"Well, first of all, I do not even know how to do that; he is much like a serpent and trusts nobody. I doubt he even shares much with his so-called friends. Moreover, say that I somehow was to gain his commandery, how would that help you expose him?" Varya said, puzzled at her friend's plan.

"Yes, perhaps he does not report everything to his friends. He is quite closed off. I agree with that. But Varya, there is something that he puts his trust and secrets in," at Varya's raised eyebrow, Ivy continued. "His diary."

Varya paled, "Surely, you do not want me to steal his journal!"

Ivy grabbed her friend's shoulders, holding them gently as she looked in her eyes with poise. "Think about it, Varya, it holds all of his secrets, and if we get it, we can show everyone that he is solely a charlatan."

Varya thought it over, doubtful. She wanted to help her friend, and she had her curiosity about Riddle's thoughts, but her plan clashed with the task Dumbledore had assigned her, and as much as she thought Alphard Black did not deserve to be dragged into whatever it was that Riddle was planning, she knew that many more lives would be lost if the did not change Tom's fate.

If fate could be changed.

"I will try," she lied, heart stinging at the betrayal she was bestowing upon her friend. Ivy smiled, relaxing at the thought of having won Varya over, then she looked at the arena.

"I must go," Trouche said, then waved to her friend, before running to her team, who was giving her a disapproving stare.

Varya sighed, shutting her eyes and letting the breeze blow at her face. She was conflicted, her soul tangled between the two possibilities she now faced: was she Tom Riddle's savior or his downfall?

***

Varya pushed against the stout door that led to the library, her hands weakened by her illness. She had grown somewhat feverish over the past hours and wanted to retract to a secluded table, then read to her heart's yearning. Although she had not found her volume of Most Macabre Monstrosities, she resolved to borrow a book of literature, wanting to let her mind unwind for a short while.

With the month of December coming in at full force, the peril of exams loomed over the heads of Hogwarts' students, who had been spending their nights cramming in hidden corners of the library. It was the Ravenclaws, above all, who were always the last to leave the room full of books, and Varya had found herself often sharing a table with Della Beauchamp, the house's perfect.

Much as she had thought, Della was a delightful presence, a breath of crisp air from the constant brooding of the Slytherin mob. She was sunny, her inventive nature coming up with the most humorous tales and anecdotes, and she seemed to always be in a pleasant state.

Now, however, she was nowhere in sight, and as Varya scurried between the endless shelves of books, it was another face that she caught in the crowd. Tom Riddle was in one of the room's corners, hunched over a parchment and scribbling feverishly. Varya drew in a breath, observing him as he concentrated, a slight crease between his dusky eyebrows. Then, she headed his way, pulling a chair across from him much as he had done during her first month at Hogwarts, then sitting down.

Tom's eyes locked on her own, a glacial abyss of catastrophe and astute clashing against the surprisingly soft swirl of smoke and ash. He regarded her with crudeness, his face scrunched in an absolute glower, following her dexterous hands as she placed her novel on the table. His figure had gone rigid at her presence, suddenly hyper-aware of every movement.

"What are you doing here?" his sardonic timbre did not fluster her, as she had grown used to his most recent behavior.

"Reading, well, of course," she answered in a gentle tone, and he hoisted an eyebrow at it, fairly used to her natural resistive character.

As he watched her maneuver her way with her book, he could tell something was amiss. Her movements were slugged, missing the natural airiness that she usually possessed, and her back was slightly hunched, an indication of tiredness. Her lips were bristly and had faded to a soft hue of rose, to the point where they resembled more of a corpse's than a human's, and the eyes were smoked over, reddened in the whites. Perhaps, the most startling thing was the girl's locks, as they hung over her shoulder, a cascade of ash and washed ink. Her hair missed its radiance, the silkiness that made it move like tall grass in the spring breeze.

Tom wondered if she was aware of her deplorable appearance, or if he had spent so many hours inspecting her and antagonizing her in his thoughts that he had retained every inch of her profile.

"Do it someplace else," his voice carried a finality that she did not quite fancy.

"Why are you such an arse to me all of a sudden?" she asked abruptly, taking him by surprise. Tom straightened his back, then closed the textbook that he had been copying note from, and glanced at her,

"My, my, Petrov, I knew you were frail of heart, but I did not expect you to come soliciting attention." he mocked, his jeer not missing the girl.

"Soliciting attention? You must have mistaken me for someone else, Riddle. I only want to know why you have been evading me."

Tom clicked his tongue, then inclined forward the meet her recalcitrant eyes. A part of him was glad that, although they seemed to be extinguished by her sickness, she still carried her usual fierceness.

"Do you not feel pitiful to question me like this? As if I owe you my presence," he asked, smirking at her hostile stare.

"I am not pitiful, quite the contrary," she said, matching his posture as she leaned over too. Varya grinned at him, skin burning frantically with muffled rage, "I am asking you, Riddle, because I feel entitled to your answer. I do not care what you think of me; make no mistake. I ask because I know few would dare to question you. That does not make me feeble."

"But it does make you a fool," his secretive tone made her tremble, eyes never leaving the other. Then, ripping the tension with a forced smile, Tom leaned back, his spine resting against his chair. "I was not avoiding you."

"Bullshit." the girl deadpanned, earning yet another bewildered look from the boy at her vulgar language.

"You seem to forget I am quite busy, Petrov. I do not fickle to no end like the rest of you, my presence is a gift, not an entitlement," he said arrogantly, toying with the wand in his hand, "And besides, I did not think you took well to me. Truthfully, it is quite surprising to see you bothered by my absence."

Varya bit back a witty remark, reminding herself that she was supposed to gain his trust, not send him flying away yet again. She wondered, for a second, how to best answer his taunt, as she doubted he would appreciate her fake sweetness, much less respect it.

"I had something I wanted to ask you," she lied, knowing that she had to trigger his curiosity.

"Go on, then," he gestured, telling her to ask her question.

"Come to Hogsmeade with me," Varya said, immediately lamenting how she had phrased it. Moreover, by the belittling look that Tom gave her, she knew it had come off wrong.

Tom scoffed, placing his wand on the table and frowning at her, "Are you asking me out on a date, Petrov?" Then, suddenly, his manner changed, a taunting smile swinging off of his lips. "How will poor Icarus feel about that?"

Varya cursed at herself, hating how her cheeks fired at the mention of her and Tom going on a rendezvous, then immediately gave him a glare. "Not as a date, Tom. I need to go to Tomes and Scrolls, they have a book that I am in need of, and I do not know my way around the wizard town."

"I believe you are somewhat of a clever witch, so I doubt you would get lost, and even so, why not ask your dreadful friends to accompany you? Surely, you would enjoy their company more." Tom said, jeering at her request.

Varya felt her heart speed up as she grappled with finding a better pretext, hating her flawed plan already. She knew that if she were to get Tom to trust her, no matter what outcome she might decide upon, she had to get him to spend time with her. Alone.

"Fine," she eventually said, settling on a convincible lie. "You caught me, I need you to come with me because I want to practice my dark arts spells, and I know nobody else would take me up on the offer."

She hated the way he looked at her, almost as if he was all-knowing, capable of seeing right through her every word. For a second, the girl fretted that he was using Legilimency on her, trying to grab at her mess of thoughts. Nevertheless, when he gave her a slight smirk, she knew he had won him over.

"Of course, my dear," he said, voice so modulated it made Varya wonder if he was genuine or merely a mirage. "There is nothing that I enjoy more than a good dabble with martial magic. You must've only asked sincerely from the start, and I would have accepted."

Something in his tone made Varya grow rigid, unsure of whether he was scheming and attempting to manipulate her. To her, Riddle was an eternal enigma, and while she could sometimes grasp bits and pieces, the puzzle never seemed to complete. Right now, her intuition told her that the boy was plotting, his mind slowly turning, but his grace played jests on her spirit.

Varya nodded, suddenly feeling smothered under his stare, then told him that they were to visit Hogsmeade over the weekend. She fastened her books and left the room in a flurry, pulling at her robes as she felt the hotness rising against her skin. Behind her, Tom Riddle wore an unutterable expression, the only thing that indicated maliciousness being his cunning leer.


	15. chapter thirteen

Tom Riddle was a catastrophe waiting to occur, a bomb with a short fuse that had been struck, a paradoxical being. Above all, Tom Riddle was a man that had little to put to his name, especially in the public eye.

He had grown up in an orphanage in London, a filthy building with fewer beds than children, that reeked with the putrid stink of despair and shattered dreams. The war had altered the effervescent scenery of the capital, with many buildings being nothing but rumbles and pebbles, and muggles loitered the mucky boulevards. The lanterns no longer buzzed with the static sound of electricity, as they had been turned off to make it more troublesome for the enemy to spot them from above.

His childhood was in no way forgiving of him, as he fell asleep to the sound of air-raid sirens blasting through the gloomiest hours and children weeping themselves to slumber. Tom never cried, not because he thought there was nothing to fear, but because he thought his life to be so miserable that he did not care for it.

That changed, however, when he found out about his true talents on that faithful night. He had known, even at his green age, that he was different, but the discovery of him possessing magic baffled him. He understood, then, that his life was precious above the rest, in his bloodstream pulsing the vigor of a wizard.

And as he grew up, he became obsessed with mortality, trying to pry himself from its intimidating grip. He fought against the inevitable, considering himself to be unconquerable. The pinnacle of all was when he had found out about his heritage.

_The Heir of Salazar Slytherin._

A name he held in secrecy, aware that divulging it might do more harm than good, and he waited for the day when it would come to light, when he could bask in the glory of his lineage. Until then, he plotted in obscurity, and because his name carried no value, he surrounded himself with powerful allies that could connect him to the wizarding world.

Nevertheless, Tom did his share of schmoozing to the higher society, hiding his loathing at having to gravel before them. He soothed himself by thinking about his long-term plan of having them plead at his feet once he rose to power.

And he knew that his charm was part of it, his uncanny way with words making women swoon and men admire him, his features the right mixture between mellowness and harshness. His nautic eyes held an everpresent storm in them, framed by coal eyelashes, and he had a sparkle that proved intelligence beyond Tom's years. Stygian hair rested on his head, curled softly at the edges, and framing his chiseled face. He was tall, admittedly a bit lanky, but he held himself with such poise that it had never been an obstacle. When Tom walked wit stag-like steps, heads turned. When Tom spoke with velvety smoke in his timbre, ears listened.

His mind was a constant swirl of anger, ambition, and cruelness, and whenever he allowed himself a feeble shred of happiness, it was commonly because of his constant accomplishment. Tom did feel, and he ridiculed those who thought that he could not, but he felt selfishly, all of his emotions orbiting around himself only. If he was curious, it was because something was useful to him. If he was upset, it was because his scheming did not work out. If he was pleased, it was because the world was falling at his feet.

Conceived under a love potion, that was what he had found about his parents, and it infuriated him incredibly. And when he found that his filthy, muggle father was still alive and well, he took matter into his own hands. He enjoyed their cries, the way they trashed under his vicious curse, the way their misery was sewed on their pathetic faces. They had abandoned him, and so why should he have been remorseful?

Soon after his killings, he had come to realize that his thirst of power settled with the atrocious act of murder, and he began researching the Chamber of Secrets again, vehement on opening it and releasing the creature that lay behind its walls, letting it run rampant amongst the repulsive muggle-borns that pranced the hallways of Hogwarts, those beings that reminded him so much of his father.

Then, just as if she had fallen out of the sky, came Varya Petrov, a foreign Slavic witch most presumed dead. Her ancestry was impressive, coming from a line of dark witches and wizards, being herself trained in such craft. Moreover, she was clever, perhaps too clever, and that infuriated Tom. It was too convenient; her presence was too much of a coincidence.

At first, he had tried to contain his suspicions, blaming his skepticism on the stress that had fallen on him after discovering the location of the Chamber. Then, he found her in the library, reading up on his secret, and his worries grew. He began planning, trying to find a way to break her mind slowly.

Still, it was not until Elladora brought him Varya's new lecture, Most Macabre Monstrosities, that he had reached his limit with the foreigner, and now he wanted to unwind all of her secrets out on display, he wanted to prick at her darkest thoughts and figure out why she had indeed come here. And how funny it was that the opportunity had revealed itself when Varya invited him to Hogsmeade.

Now, as Tom waited for her outside of the castle, he thought about his intention of breaking her and extracting the information.

She quickly came down the steps, scarf wrapped around her neck, hiding her red cheeks from the icy breeze of December. The first snowflakes had fallen, decorating the frozen pavement with a soft blanket of white richness. Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, with two small braids starting at her widow peak and ending at her ends, and she wore a different coat than usual. This one was of an ivory material, golden threads running across it in sophisticated patterns, and Tom wondered if Dumbledore had given her access to her family's fortune.

Her eyes fell on him, and she grinned softly, making Tom grimace at her attitude. What game was she playing at, and did she genuinely think he could not see past her charade? His lips turned upwards in a fake smile, and he waited until she was by his side.

"How did you manage to get your permission slip signed?" he asked her, remembering that Icarus had complained about her not attending their last trip. Thankfully, the boy was busy with a task Tom had given him, and so nobody would have to spend the day watching him act out of character due to his passion for Varya.

"I forged it," she singsonged, proud at her delinquency. "I suppose Dumbledore might have been able to figure it out, but if he did, he did not say anything about it."

Truthfully, it had been the Transfiguration professor that had helped her forge the signature, encouraging her on her journey to the wizarding town with the Slytherin prefect. However, Varya could not admit that to the boy.

She had visited him as early as possible, asking him to help her with her task, but not mentioning the possibility of betraying Tom. Varya still did not know what to make of the situation, conflicted between doing her friend's bidding and succeeding in her task.

Above all, she wanted to redeem herself, to make her name worth something again, much as it had almost fifty years ago. Shamefully, she admitted that she was egotistical, and she did not care what she had to do for that. Her only goal was to clean up the mayhem that her parents had left behind.

"I doubt his hazy mind could even tell the difference," Tom scoffed, not bothering to hide his resentment of the professor.

"Hm, he is not that old, Riddle," said Varya, noting the slight distaste in the boy's voice.

"Does not make him less of a dimwit, does it?" the prefect answered, clasping his hands behind his back as he started walking with her along the snowy trail. They fell in somewhat comfortable silence, the girl basking in the picturesque winter scenery, whereas the boy let his mind wander to his ruinous intent.

The walk to Hogsmeade was quaint, the bifurcation nearing the rocky edge that separated white land from the frozen sea. The water was restless, waves thrown against the coast almost as if declaring war on the earth and everything that stood above it. The rapturous song of the aquatic susurrated, a cry of nature's wrath, a hellish voice of the unexplored horizon as dusk peaked from the edges, spilling over everything owned by humankind.

The soft tangerine hue fell upon the scenery, making the snow reflect it on the passing faces of the many Hogwarts students that walked the road. It seemed that the two Slytherins were not the only ones that had decided to set out at such a late hour, but Varya doubted that most of them had the same purpose as the two of them did.

In the twilight glow of dusk, Tom Riddle looked entrancing, almost hypnotic - pale skin catching the shafts of colorfulness, letting them skim on the surface in a reinvigorating dance. Poetically beautiful, his melancholic nature blended with the winter panorama, eyes resembling the pigment of a forget-me-not flower that had shriveled. The gaze of a conqueror as he watched over his empire, Tom Riddle was an impassive force of nature.

Varya wanted to let her mind wander to a different reality, one where he was simply a boy, and she was nothing but a smitten girl, and they rendezvoused at Madam Poodifoot's Tea Shop, sharing glances that carried unspoken promises, vulnerable words of comfort and affection. Nevertheless, the crudeness of her predicament was like cold water, and it drenched her whole body. They were not lovers; they were not even friends. They were two lost souls that had taken a journey together, sealed and delivered by fate itself. And what lay before them was horrendous, she believed.

Tom Riddle was nothing but a reptile blooded boy who regarded the world as a playing field, and he wanted to win it all. Furthermore, Varya was a girl of low morals, who let herself be swayed by the menacing blow of desire and cared for nobody but herself.

"You are awfully quiet," Tom said as they reached the town's edge, his nose red from the cold's unforgiving bite.

"I get lost in my thoughts easily," admitted the girl, whose obsidian eyes trailed the small buildings.

Hogsmeade was a small wizarding village, with ancient architecture and medieval charm. It stretched out across her view, covered in the white layer of snow, and it resembled the back of a cheesy Christmas card.

"Charming place," she muttered, and the boy scoffed at her side, his lethargic movements making her head spin.

"Barely."

They continued walking until they reached the bookstore, and when they opened the door, the melodious chime of a bell echoed through the room. They closed it behind them, ignoring the snow they had brought in with their boots, and welcomed the warm sensation of being inside.

Varya smiled at the store, admiring the lengthy rows of old parchments and leathered books, and, to her left, Tom let his eyes roam the shelves in a similar manner. They both shared the same insatiable need for knowledge, although it surfaced in different ways, and enjoyed the ambrosial scent of pressed paper and dusty covers.

Tom walked around the store as the girl chattered eagerly with the owner, letting one finger trace the dirty shelves in the back of the room, where the oldest books were hidden. He scanned a few covers, deeming them to be of no interest to him, then turned back to his companion.

Varya's feathery hair hung behind her in a clasped ponytail, its sooty color still not shinning as it had once. A few pins held shorter strands from falling into her oval-shaped face, and he watched her crock an eyebrow in disapproval at the clerk. Her lips were pulled in a haughty smirk that Tom had noticed on her many times. The girl was enigmatic, a clash of selflessness and egotistical character, so evenly matched that it was hard to describe her true personality.

Her crystalline laughter filled the library, and Tom scowled at its sound, finding it bothersome. Her voice was delicate, much like new silk on morning sheets, and it had a distinctive pull to it. Right now, it was slightly raspy, sign of a passing cold.

"Thank you so much, sir," she told the store owner, a stuffy little man with a prominent balding spot. He was disgusting to look at, at least for Tom, who almost let out a scoff at his lively demeanor.

Varya made his way to him, looking at the books that he stood in front of.

"Of course, why would I expect to find you anywhere else besides the Defense Against Dark Arts section," she said, skimming the bindings to read every title.

"What did you get?" he asked, ever so elusive to her statements.

"A book," her voice dripped with cynicism, and a small, breathy chuckle left her lips. She found herself to be hilarious, Tom presumed.

"You had me come all this way with you, and yet you will now even tell me what book you got?" asked the boy as they made their way back to the main street. The light had deemed even more; the sky was painted with a violaceus tint that reminded him of bruised skin and nigrified eyes.

The girl stayed silent, but Tom remarked her sudden vigilance as she passed the rest of the students who had started heading back to the school. The road was covered in fresh footprints, and amongst the large crowd, nobody noticed two students heading towards the abandoned house. If they did, they just thought them to be two lovers seeking warmth from the snowy evening.

It was Varya that opened the door, stepping into the shadowy house and flicking her wand out to cast a light spell. She trudged towards the fireplace, then used magic to conjure dried wood. She placed it in the pit, lightning it ablaze with a soft hand motion.

Tom Riddle analyzed his surroundings, and to Varya's surprise, showed no repugnance to the filth and mold that filled each crack in the thin walls. Then, she remembered that the boy had grown in an orphanage, a fact that was easy to forget considering his refined nature.

"Not that I do not enjoy spending my weekend in a house that is one earthquake away from collapsing, but do you care to explain what we are doing here?" he asked, walking to one of the obsolete chairs and cleaning it with a spell. Then, he sat down, legs crossed, and face impassive.

Varya smirked, then peered at him. "Riddle, what do you know of the dead?"

The question took him by surprise, and for a second, his face showed indescribable devilry, the look of a man who had forsaken God and his creation, who fed on despair and depravity. Tom Riddle's anatomy consisted of absolute immorality, and in his nefarious nature, he saw himself as an idealistic villain.

As such, he had become quite habitual with death, the heinous malady that corrupted those of weak character, people who were too afraid to strive for greatness. He had seen it as it passed over his father as it strangled every bit of light out of his eyes, taking away the soul from the corporal. And with the dead? Tom paid no mind to them; they were the scum that had fallen of life's cigar, the weaklings.

Nevertheless, he did not let his psychotic nature slither through the small cracks of his mask, and he kept his eyes unpassive, cold as the Atlantic blizzard.

"I do not care for the dead, Petrov," he answered.

"Well, you should," Varya said, as she walked in a circle, conjuring white candles in a pentagonal shape. Now, in the seclusion of the room, with no fear of persecution, Varya felt more at home than she had in months. She glanced around the room, then grabbed a small brick from the ground. Suddenly, she started tracing lines on the floor.

This caught Tom's attention, and he leaned forward to look at the star-shaped form that she had drawn in confusion. "What are you doing?"

The fire crackled, sending small sparks to the floor. The light fell on Varya's face at an odd angle, and her domineering smirk almost sent chills down the boy's spine. The girl reached out to one of her cloak pockets and then pulled out a tiny box. She opened it, picking out a wooden match, then lit it up. She raised it to her face, hypnotized by the destructive flame, carrying the maddened eyes of an arsonist. Slowly, she turned her head to him.

"Is it not obvious, Tom?" her voice was faint, but her eyes held her perpetual sagacious flare. "I am shattering the veil of death."


	16. chapter fourteen

Tom Riddle was seldom impressed. He had, at some point, learned how to easily unravel characters, letting their truest form glisten brightly before his eyes. He was exceptional at divulging their secrets, their hushed desires, and found those around him to be shallow. It was comical, almost, how effortlessly he could understand people while never truly caring for anyone. A gift, or a curse, Tom Riddle was the master of perceiving.

Now, however, as he studied Varya Petrov at her most unscrupulous behavior, he could not help the tense sensation that took over his windpipe. He was surprised, yes, he could admit that. He was aware of the girl's in-depth knowledge of dark magic, but he thought her too soft to perform such witchcraft. Even more so, he had never considered that she dabbled with necromancy and spiritualism, having assumed that her training consisted mostly of martial magic, a similar curriculum to that of Durmstrang. And he did not know what to make of it, he discerned, because he did not like to be proved wrong, and the girl kept on astounding him whenever he let his guard down.

"Surprised, Riddle?" she asked, almost imperiously, entertained that the boy was studying her with something akin to admiration. She had expected it, of sorts, when she had decided to bring him with her, but it was still revigorating to see the Slytherin prefect regard her with the slightest hint of respect.

"Yes," he admitted, and now it was her turn to stare. "I did not take you to be interested in necromancy and spiritualism. As a matter of fact, I did not even know that it was still practiced."

"Perhaps not in established schools, no, but who cares for a small castle in the middle of a forgotten forest?" she answered and then pulled out the book she had purchased. "I ordered it specifically from Transylvania, and asked them to cover the title with a spell."

She passed it to him, and his fingers trailed the bumps of the title— _the Tales of Beedle the Bard_. To the unknowing eye, it looked like an ordinary fairy-tale book, but as Varya waved her hand over the bindings, its true form showed. _The Art of the Occult: Necromancy and Rituals_.

"Clever," Tom hummed. "Clever little witch."

Varya chuckled, grabbing the book from his arms then placing it in the middle of her pentagram. She stood in its center, eyes skimming over one of the rituals she had learned during her fourth year. This book, old and worn, was her textbook at the time.

It felt like home, although she did not know if she could call the castle that. Varya never sincerely had a home, but she had familiarity. Yes, this is what this was, familiarity.

"But why are you performing this?" the boy asked suddenly, still failing to piece together the information she had given him. He was lost, and it irritated him how little he truly knew of the girl. No other student at Hogwarts had ever truly caught his curiosity like this, not that he would ever admit it. It was purely nosiness, anyhow, a thirst for knowledge and skill that made him want to figure her out.

Varya sighed, and for a moment, she thought of her response. She had brought Riddle with her against her better judgment, almost as a peace offering between them. Over the past week, she had obsessed with finding the meaning behind the words that the mavka had told her, but as much as she wanted to return to the forest and force it out of the creature, she knew it could be potentially dangerous. So, she decided to do the next best thing, although still as hazardous.

The girl had sent an owl to one of her old classmates, begging him to send her the ritual book, saying that she had grown bored of the second-hand magic taught at Hogwarts. It was a half-lie, because she found herself enjoying her new practice, although she missed the thrilling sensation of the dark arts. Reluctantly, her classmate had agreed and told her that he would conceal the title to make it easier to hide—magic contraband.

Between the fading pages, Varya had found an ancient ritual that would allow her to temporarily lift the veil of death. By doing so, the girl could easily converse with the dead, and she knew they carried great secrets.

"Is showing off not enough?" she joked, but she rolled her eyes as she saw Tom's eyes narrow. "The dead know more than we do, and I have some burning inquiries for them. If it frightens you, care to step outside."

Tom scoffed, "I am not frightened, Petrov, of the living, much less the dead."

"But you should be," the girl said cryptically. "They see everything, they know more than we do, and they can let secrets slip."

Silence fell on them, the boy did not know what to answer, and Varya took this as an opening to focus on her ritual. She gazed at the boy, muttering a few warnings not to distract her.

"And above all, stay quiet, and do not let them hear you." she had said, not wanting to involve the boy in the risky activity. He could handle himself, she was sure of it, but if he meddled with her practice, it could be disastrous.

Besides the apparent intent of impressing him, Varya needed someone to come with her, someone that would act as an anchor to her reality. Otherwise, she feared that she might be pulled over to the other realm, as spiritualism was not only a door for the dead, but also the living.

She read the chant one last time, then placed the book on one of the tables. Varya walked in the middle of her drawing, then took a deep breath. Nervousness started to settle in, and for a second, she pondered her plan. She was aware of the risks, the Dark Priest had warned the apprentices many times of unsafe practices, but her curiosity was gnawing at her psyche. She needed to know; she was almost desperate for it. To the young girl, puzzles were her single thrill.

More so, ever since that night, the girl had felt an ominous, dim cloud over her head, and an unrelenting awareness of trepidation had pooled in her guts, almost as if unforeseeable danger was approaching her with every passing second.

Her hands quivered, but she tried to keep a steadfast mind as she began the incantation, ignoring the sudden fall in temperature. Her words, a mumbled string of Latin, almost alarmed Tom, and he watched her enter a daze of insanity, lunatic eyes wide with sadism. Her chapped lips muttered the spell fast, and he could only catch bits of it, but it was dark, horrendous, and definitely, something that was not taught in his land.

It was breathtaking, witnessing such blasphemous sorcery, a spell as ancient as the stone that built Hogwarts. It made his blood run cold, but faster, and his skin tingle with anticipation as he watched the scene unfold.

Her chant grew more tumultuous, sinister, her voice raucous, and both felt the small breeze that circulated its way around the cabin, tousling their hair. She stretched her arms open, palms facing upward, and the flame of the glowing candles swelled. She brought the small brick to her with a sparse move of the hand, and suddenly, she slit her palm, letting the blood flow sleekly from her cut. Black magic always required a price to be paid, and her crimson pain was hers. Tom breathed out and watched the small misty cloud leave his parted lips despite the fire's warmth.

The room went still, and the two exchanged a hesitant glance as nothing appeared. Then, a low screech on the wooden floor, followed by a low wail of terror. Tom's eyes snapped to the room's corner, where a fashionable woman sat, watching them with melancholic orbs. She was short, with heavy arms and a strong nose, and she sniffled painfully.

"Why did you call me?" she whimpered, brittle voice filled with absolute misery. She was translucent, much like the phantoms that walked Hogwarts' corridors, and to Varya's surprise, quite lovely, with long hair pulled in a Victorian hairstyle. Nonetheless, she was delicate, shoulders sagged in desolation, and her eyes were moistened.

"I have questions," said Varya, voice unyielding as she apprehended the ghost. She was fortunate, she knew that, as the apparition did not seem to be malicious. However, her ritual could have gone terribly amiss in a different circumstance, as necromancy was a gamble more than anything. You never knew what you opened the door for.

"I do not have to answer them, not after awakening so rudely," she moaned, earning Tom's irritation. He did not know what he had expected, but it certainly was not a wailing woman. The ghost looked around the room, then gasped. "And summoning me here, of all places, have you no shame? Have you no consideration of the dead?"

"I apologize for my rudeness, I called out to anything that listened, and you happened to answer," admitted Varya, a bit embarrassed at her ineptitude.

Another gasp, "Child, are you not of sane mind? Do you not know the dangers of opening a door between the two realms! God forbid something demonic had heard you, or you would not be standing here right now."

"I know, but-"

"But nothing!" she scolded. "You remind me of my poor Collette, so reckless, she must be growing old now, and I doubt that her mind has brightened over the years. So careless..."

To the two children that had not felt the two-sided edge of a mother's scolding, the ghost's constant bickering was tiresome. Tom was growing impatient, his sociopathic character not letting him sympathize with the deceased women, and Varya was plainly tired, her mind too shattered to comprehend her words.

"I met a mavka in the forest," she interrupted the ghost, not caring to be courteous. Tom raised an eyebrow at the words, suddenly fascinated, but did not speak. The ghost also seemed to react to it, but out of fear, shaking her head viciously.

"No, no, that is not a good sign. Not a good sign," it muttered to herself, almost as if she was unaware of their presence.

"It called me there, much as I did to you, and it seemed to know me. What was more bothersome were her words, something between a warning and a threat," Varya explained, and the ghost's head snapped to her. "He is coming, that is what it said."

"He?" she began, unsure of what the young child was asking of her. To the late Martha Flamming, the young one was much like her daughter in her early years, although she could tell by her posture that she was distraught.

"Yes, I did not know what to make of it at first, but..." Varya breathed out, sparing a glance at Tom, who watched her like a hawk. How much could she reveal without it being too much? She had brought him here to pique his curiosity, to make him question her witchcraft and story, but he could not find out everything.

Then, out of nowhere, the Martha Flamming stilled, almost entranced. With a tremulous cry, she let out an answer that would haunt Varya for years to come. "He is coming, Varya. If you do not leave now, he will get you, and when he does, he will slaughter your soul for his cause. The magic is shifting, dark times come. Run as far as you can."

Just as Varya was about to make her elaborate, the ghost vanished, and the flame crackled once again in the fireplace. The girl cursed, then glanced at one of the candles that had been extinguished by its wax, fickle downturned. The magic had broken.

She fell to her knees, consumed and breathy, almost ready to fly out a white flag in defeat. What was happening to her? Her magic sizzled on her skin, weakened and pitiful, and she felt a sting in her eyes as her head throbbed ridiculously. Why was she so weak?

"Petrov, what did what woman mean?" commanded Tom, approaching her with apathy. His face scrunched at her state, and he almost felt the need to kick her, much as one would do to a naive pup.

"I do not know," her voice was croaky, and it barely reached his ears as her face was still facing the ground, trying to hide the drops of failure that threatened to varnish her cheeks.

"What do you mean you do not know, Petrov? That is laughable," he jeered, then turned towards where the spirit had been. "Where did she go?"

"I do not know," the girl said again, his adenoidal voice making her skull pound with irritation and discomfort.

"Then make her come back-"

"I cannot!" she yelled at him, voice thundering through the desolate shack. Tom tensed his jaw, eyes narrowing at her insubordination, then watched her head fall back. "I cannot."

Her whisper was that of a bruised soul, and she hammered her fist at the floor in defeat, ignoring the ache that radiated in her knuckles. Her ponytail had come undone, and now her ebony locks covered her face from the boy, who stared at her with revulsion.

"You are pathetic."

He ignored her faint whimper as he spun on his heel, making his way out of the house, not even glancing back at her broken frame. He was nauseated by her, outraged that she had fallen in defeat, her magic broken. He almost smelled it on her, and it mixed with her usual citric scent. Then, he stopped outside in the snow, looking out at the moon that shined above him.

Alpine trees circled his surroundings, covered in a thick layer of chalkiness, and flakes swirled in the sky, flashing in the dusky glow of the lamps that lined the main road. The wind was mightier now, howling as it glid through the vegetation, hitting the boy's skin, reddening it. Tom did not mind it though, the coldness being welcome against his callous form, and he savored in the twinge that it brought. It was the only thing he felt at this moment.

The door behind him opened, but he did not look at her, not even as she passed him and made her way down the main street, back hunched and hair churning in the harsh winter nighttime. She was pale, and her eyes were specked with bands of crimson as they held unfathomable frustration.

Tom started walking behind Varya, watching her defeated form pass the town's edge and make its way back the same route that they came, almost mechanically. The girl had been startled to see him waiting outside, as she had thought that he had stormed out on her, and although they were not speaking, she was glad that she did not walk in the night alone. Varya feared that she would not be able to fight against any trouble if she encountered it.

The sight of the two students walking in the blizzard made the locals' heads turn, but none of them intervened, watching as they strolled their way past the horizon. A boy and a girl, so alike in character, but so distinctive. One with a heart of granite, unphased by any display of sentiment, the other one, a tortured soul, weakened by years of trial.

Two sides of the same coin, Dumbledore had once said, and if he had seen them now, he would have agreed more than ever, as they sauntered the darkness with their own gruesome malice. Was it not ravaging, to see such adolescent youths that had been utterly consumed by tragedy? That had discovered on their own skin that the only soul they could rely on was themselves.

The world had abandoned them, took away their purity and nativity, and hardened them beyond recognition. They were fifteen, at most sixteen, but there was no greenness in them, nothing to suggest joviality. Indeed, the calamity of not being sheltered by a parent's love had slain their souls, drained them of vitality, empathy, and made them grow up to be egotistical creatures.

Much like Erebus, son of Chaos, born out of void, they had raised from the abyss. Nevertheless, so had the universe, an infinite extension of nothingness. Chaos was a ladder, and it offered spectacular opportunity to those daring enough to climb it.


	17. chapter fifteen

It had taken days for Varya's magic to heal, and it had been a torturous process, for nothing was more damaging to a sorceress than losing her strength. She had excused herself from most classes, some part of it because she felt that she could not perform at her best, the other part because she did not want to face Tom Riddle in such a deplorable state.

After their escapade to the wizarding village, Hogsmeade, the two had arrived back at the castle in absolute silence, each going back to their chambers and trying not to wake up their roommates. They had not spoken since, and Varya did not know if it was her distress at what had happened or his recalcitrant nature; alas, they kept their distance, only stealing fugitive glances in the Common Room.

Now, she was back in the magical classrooms, scribbling down every word that passed the lips of her Care of Magical Creatures professor, Silvanus Kettleburn. He was a docile man, and he loved his profession, but Varya could not take him seriously. His recklessness with the creatures they studied was blatant, often not taking necessary precautions when bringing them in for observations.

"Chimeras, yes!" his voice permeated the room as students struggled to write down his rapid words, almost a river of inconsistency and rambling. "In your textbook, you will find me credited for the information, as I helped Newton Scamander with it, ah. Great times, indeed, such a remarkable young lad. Terrifying what he is up to nowadays, his constant fight against Grindelwald."

Varya felt the pairs of eyes that turned to her, but she disregarded them, gripping her quill harder and gawking at her desk. Although the buzz of the Petrov witch had died down drastically, she still felt the obnoxious stares of her classmates whenever there was news of Grindelwald's army. Some even speculated that she was a spy, that her parents had never actually been killed. They just lived in retirement, they said, the Dark Wizard's generals, and had sent their blasphemous daughter to corrupt Hogwarts, find allies.

"They look at me much the same," said Renold Rosier from her right. She turned her head to him, taking in his luxurious appearance.

Renold Rosier was an aristocrat, a mighty name in the European scenery that implied allurement, sparkling chandeliers that towered over French marble in ballrooms and extravagance. However, the spectacular name had been tainted by a black sheep. Vinda Rosier, a beautiful French witch, had allied herself with Gellert Grindelwald, sharing his fanaticism and eventually indulging in his corruption.

"Do they?" Varya said bitterly, and with a glance around the room, she noticed that not one student was glowering at the French descendant. "Or has your father thrown so many balls, popped so many expensive champagne bottles and bribed so many ministers that, perhaps, everyone has forgotten?"

She knew that she was rude, but her tiredness made her irascible, more so than usual, and she already had something against Rosier, as he failed to tell her the truth about what had happened before Slughorn's gathering. Much like Tom had explained, the boy claimed that he had tried to free the serpents in the woods, but they had been so aggravated by the Gryffindor fourth-year that they attacked him. Their venom was potent, he said, and it had taken him a week to recuperate, but he was fine.

To Varya, it all seemed so clearly rehearsed that she could not help but grimace. The story was not just similar; no, it was almost identical, a sign of manufactured details. She let it go, however, as Renold's loyalty was firm.

"Uh, not very friendly, are we?" he asked, azure eyes mixed with the slightest shade of forest green, so colored that they seemed to carry an exponential cosmos of mystery in them. His natural elegance was radiating, head tilted at just the right angle to showcase his strong jawline.

Varya scoffed, eyes trained on their professor, who was now drawing an odd-looking sketch of a Chimera in the air, his wand sloppy and lines harsh. "I do not know what makes you think such. I am quite a sweetheart."

Rosier chuckled, eyes trained on the girl's darling face, "Well, does this sweetheart fancy dancing?"

Varya raised an eyebrow at him, then ridiculed his statement, "Ah, yes, the fine dancing taught at Scholomance Academy of The Dark Arts. Every Thursday, we gather in the catacombs, and use skeletons as partners."

"Sounds delightful," the boy mused, then placed his arms on the desk, leaning in to better look at her. "What I am asking, however, is if you would be interested in joining me for my family's gathering this winter break. We are all attending, you see, the whole group of...what is it that you call us? Mischiefs, yes, and dear Icarus would be delighted by your presence."

The girl was intrigued; she had to admit. An open invitation to attend a party organized by one of the most famous pure-blood families was not something to be turned down quickly. However, she sensed there was more to it; there was something that Rosier was hiding behind his invitation.

"And I am presumed to believe that this invite is only made out of courtesy for your friend?" her accent was dense, and it made her words sound jumbled, but she got her point across.

"Well, yes, that is exactly why I am asking," the boy sighed in sham hurt. "And if it was not, do you truly expect I would admit my reason? Varya, you know us better."

She did not miss the plural word in his sentence. So, this was to the interest of all of them; they were planning something. Varya did not know if it was a trap, but her curiosity had been piqued, and she wanted to know what they were plotting.

"Very well," she said, nodding slowly, "but I get to bring a friend."

Rosier scoffed, "You are not bringing Trouche in my own home, Petrov."

"Fine," she bit back, "then I am bringing Della Beauchamp."

"A muggle? Are you insane, or do you just want the poor girl to die?" he scoffed, voice aggressive.

"I refuse to be the only girl there," said Varya.

"You will not be, Elladora is in attendance, her family is close-knit with mine." was the answer she received, and Varya frowned at the notion. She had not seen the two of them spending much time together.

Their attention was caught by the professor, who had the awfully drawn Chimera run around the room, scaring some of the students as it slipped from his control. He was chasing it around, his robes getting caught in his own feet, and then he stumbled to the ground, face first. Varya grimaced, then shot Rosier a look, and he nodded before taking out his wand and casting a spell at the outline of the beast, blasting it to bits.

The room was hushed, and as the professor got up in humiliation, Varya let a small giggle fall past her lips. His clothes were dirty now, and his hat was half plopped downwards. He called the class off, and Varya was delighted at the early break.

As soon as she entered the Great Hall, she felt Rosier's presence beside her, and she shot him a curious look, to which the boy only smirked. They sat down at the table, eager to eat their lunch and drink their tea.

Exams were to start this week, and it was evident by the multitude of students that had brought their textbooks to the table, not caring if they dirtied their pages with fingerprints of sauce or spilled small crumbs in the bindings. As the last two weeks of their first semester had started, Varya's peers had begun discussing their holiday plans, excited for the joyful festivities that were to come.

Varya had not quite figured out what she wanted to do. She could return to her hometown, visit her classmates at the academy, or even travel around Europe, but she did not have the heart to go back. Her stomach lurched at the idea of setting foot in her old academy, and so she had just assumed that her holidays would be spent in Hogwarts' empty library.

Then, Rosier had invited her to attend his family's Christmas festivities, and she thought it might fill in a few days of her vacation, perhaps until New Year's Eve, but Varya knew that she could not spend more than a week there, or she would go insane. She was worried; she did not know how the other families would react to a Petrov descendant attending, as so many had turned their backs to the lineage once they had joined Grindelwald. Moreso, those who did not betray them, and had continued exchanging correspondence with her parents, attracted by the notion of the dark wizard's power, were to judge her for betraying the cause.

For the greater good, they said, but Varya could not imagine the pure-blood families aligning with this ideology, as it included not only them but also muggle-born wizards and other creatures that had magic coursing through their bloodstream.

An owl entered the grand room, soaring over the students' heads, and landing on the Slytherin table, right across Varya. It had a purple letter in its beak, sealed with the emerald emblem of her house, and she recognized it immediately. It seemed that Professor Slughorn had given up on having Tom deliver his mail.

The girl took it from the bird's beak, opening it with anticipation, and just as she had expected, it read the next date of the club's meetings. It was to be a Christmas party, and the attire was festive. She glanced towards Rosier and saw him looking at the letter out of the corner of his eye, a greenish shade taking over his features. He immediately turned away when he noticed her staring.

_Curious._

Someone sat down across from her, and Varya met the eyes of Icarus Lestrange, the boy whom everyone thought had taken quite a liking to her. The girl did not know what she felt for him; she was perplexed. He was a lovely boy with a habit of mischief, and one would seldom get bored in his dynamic presence. Furthermore, he was gorgeous, with voluminous hair that seemed to be soft to the touch, and plump carmine lips.

Alas, Varya did not know if she had time for such things; the concept of love and relationships was foreign to her. Although they would never admit it, the Scholomance Academy was much like a cult, and in a cult, you ever only love one person. Your leader.

Nevertheless, now, when his fiery eyes met her mahogany ones, she could not suppress the fluttering in her stomach, delighted by the notion of sharing such feelings with another person. He smiled at her, such effortless diablerie in his nature, and with his disheveled look and loosened tie, he almost had a promise of adventure and recklessness on his lips.

"You two are disgusting," said Rosier, eyes watching them over a warm cup of tea. He placed it in front of himself, then turned to Icarus. "And I asked her about the party, you dimwit. Perhaps, next time you will have the balls to do it yourself."

"What do you know of my balls, Rosier?" taunted Icarus, eyebrows raised in naughtiness.

"I know you lack them," the other boy scoffed.

"Do you?" Lestrange said, then hopped over the table to sit next to his friend, leaning towards him, then feigning a flirtatious look. "Have you been peeking at me while I shower, Renold?"

Ren pushed his face away from him, a horrified look flashing across his face. "Die, you little cockroach!"

"You kiss your mum with that filthy mouth, Rosier?" laughed Icarus, following Renold with his eyes as he got up from the table and collected his books. The French wizard shot him a glare, then marched away from him, eyebrows triangular in anger.

Icarus turned to Varya, who had been watching the exchange with a faint smile, delighted to see the friendliness that passed between the two of them. Although Riddle might not have shared a meaningful bond with the boys, they all saw each other much like brothers, and their loyalty was beyond doubt. Blood ran thicker than water, many said, but they did not know the full proverb.

The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.

"I was going to ask you myself, that pompous rat is just a control freak," said Icarus, carrying a hint of regret in his voice. "Are you going to attend?"

"Yes," said Varya, smiling at his excitement.

"Good, good," he said, then scooted closer to her, and Varya could feel the warmth of his thigh pressed against hers. "Because I wanted to ask if you would accompany me?"

"As a date?" the girl raised her eyebrow at him, heart swelling at the idea.

"As a date," he confirmed, resting his hand against her lower back, much as he had done at Slughorn's gathering.

"I would love to," she said, head dizzy at his precautions touch, almost as if testing her reaction. Her ribcage hurt as the small butterflies danced their way around her abdomen, the fluttering of their wings ticketing her insides and making her a mess of collywobbles and giggles. She had accepted his invitation, but her heart was somewhat torn, unsure of it.

The notion of young love was frightening to the novice heart, and while Lestrange had had his fair share of dabbling with the affection of women, Varya was as innocent as could be. She did not know what to make of her sentiments, and she struggled to understand the way her body reacted to Icarus' touches and looks, a mix of infatuation and appreciativeness. Was this what it felt like to fancy someone, or was it just her egocentrism being stroked by a charming boy's affection, a natural human reaction when exposed to romanticism?

Regardless, Icarus was sure of his passion as he regarded the young witch. Even in her most vulnerable moments, she was a phantom star in the cloudy night, a source of light in the macabre world that he had found himself to be part of. Her nose, arched upwards with elegance, was always sticking itself in trouble, and he valued that venturesome behavior in a partner. She was ruthless. Although his heart churned watching her in her current state, she was one of the few that had managed to beat him in the dueling class. Varya Petrov was a hurricane, and she perturbed everything that stood in her way, scattering them to bits and pieces, but at her core, she was as peaceful as the sea before a storm, gentle like a blooming flower.

That is how Icarus saw her; however, he could not have been more wrong.


	18. chapter sixteen

Varya could not remember the last time she had celebrated Christmas. As a matter of fact, she thought she had never savored the holiday much- her school did not make a big fuss about it. Gifts were prohibited, as they did not want to encourage students to be materialistic, and the festive dinner implied that dessert would be served, unlike the regular days. She never minded it, in any case. After all, it was the only thing that she knew.

At Hogwarts, however, the holiday was the most critical time of the year, and as she walked down the hallways, she could see multiple students already wearing Christmas sweaters and reindeer antlers. Some went the extra mile and had charmed a small cloud of snow to follow them, or had made their costumes shine with holiday lights.

It was mildly inconvenient, Varya realized when she sat in class next to a Hufflepuff that had snowflakes dancing around her. A few of them landed on Varya's hair, and she bit back a nasty remark, brushing them through her hair.

Professor Merrythought was demonstrating the _Everte Statum_ charm, a spell commonly used in dueling that sent the opponent flying back a few feet. She had Tom Riddle up front, as always, and Icarus Lestrange, who was quite the skilled duelist.

"Now, Riddle will be demonstrating how to cast the charm efficiently, and I want you all to pay attention," she said, pacing the front of the class, "and Lestrange will be taking the impact, unfortunately-"

"Is it because of the charm I used on the Hufflepuff, Professor?" interrupted Lestrange mockingly, earning a scowl from Merrythought. Even though Varya had been forgiving of the merry students, Lestrange had taken it as an opening to charm a classmate's antlers, making them grow in size and stick to his head, much like real ones would.

"Precisely, and I expect to see you in detention as well," she said, shaking her head in condemnation.

"Would not have it any other way, ma'am," he said, sending a wink her way. Varya rolled her eyes, but she could not help the smile that stretched over her face.

Nevertheless, it vanished from her lips when she met Tom Riddle's stare, who was frowning in aversion. Their gazes locked, and it seemed almost hopeless to pull her eyes away, stupefied by his intensity. In retrospect, Tom Riddle was an enthralling being, with intellect so developed that he outwitted some of the teachers, and his ambition burned like wildfire. It glowed of beautiful emerald green, much like a serpent's scales, and nothing could extinguish it once it ignited.

He lifted an eyebrow at her, almost like an invite, but Varya did not know how to respond. They had not had a conversation since Hogsmeade, and there was something in her that wanted to reach out to him, to figure out what he was thinking. Tom Riddle had become her ultimate fixation.

"As I was saying," the teacher's voice snapped her out of it, and she broke the intense eye contact, her attention going back to the class, "Mister Riddle will hit mister Lestrange with the charm so that you can see how it is used, but then they will switch places. Lestrange will cast the charm; however, Riddle will quickly deflect it. Observe this, as it will be on your O.W.L.s."

The class watched the two boys bow to each other, although Tom only briefly inclined his head to his partner, engaged in the duel. Both were talented sorcerers, but their magic was incredibly different. Where Tom Riddle used a scholastic approach, wand strokes artistic and sophisticated, Icarus Lestrange was a barrel of gunpowder, exploding with each spell he cast.

And that was the striking divergence between the two of them, was it not? Tom was a calculative person; he never needed to rush because he was used to having everything in his control. He twisted people around his slick fingers, much as you would a coin, and found it so easy to maneuver them that it was almost comical. When he walked around the room, he commanded it with elegance and appeal, heads turning to see the Slytherin prefect. His face was of Adonic beauty, sculptured from the most delicate granite, and his eyes carried intrigue like no other.

Icarus, on the other hand, was an exciting person, full of venture and wittiness. There was never a dull moment around him, eyes ablaze with passion and devilry. He was a man with no repentance, and he carried himself with consummate nihilism, almost as if he did not believe in divinity, and enjoyed swimming in the devil's cauldron of sin. A born trickster, Icarus was similar to Loki, the god of mischief, and he fought ruthlessly.

If Tom was the wintertime blizzard, cold and imperious, Icarus was hellfire, consuming and bustling, and they never found common ground to bring hell upon, both being just as nefarious.

"Ready, boys?" at their nod, the teacher waved her hand down, and the first flash of magic lightened the room.

Tom's spell was powerful, and it sent Icarus flying into the wall behind him, a loud thud echoing through the room. The students gasped, and Varya raised to her feet, leaning over the desk to glance at Lestrange.

The boy was groaning in pain, massaging the part of his head that had collided with the wall. His pained eyes met Varya's worried ones, and he got up back to his feet, ready to resume the lesson.

"A bit harsh, Riddle," he chuckled, still clutching the back of his head.

"The least of what I can do," Tom said smugly, and Varya scowled at him, not understanding his behavior. It was common for Tom to be an overbearing arse, but never so openly, and he had almost made his words sound like a threat. His gaze flew to her, self-righteous smirk resting on his lips, almost as if he was challenging her to speak up. The girl stayed quiet.

"My turn," Lestrange smirked, eager to cast the spell although he knew the other boy would deflect it. Icarus cherished dueling, it was in his blood, and he was remarkable at it.

Perhaps, that is why Tom considered him to be one of the best at martial magic in their group, and often had him lead their attacks. He was not afraid to engage in battle, and he never hesitated to take out his wand and fire the most vicious curses at a target. The boy had no remorse in him, almost as if he was simply machinery of war, and his reflexes were outstanding. Icarus Lestrange was the infamous duelist of The Knights of Walpurgis.

His spell was fast, rough, and he did not wait for the Professor to give him the green light. It caught Tom off-guard, as he barely managed to deflect it, having to stumble a few steps backward. The Slytherin prefect frowned, obviously irritated by his opponent not following the rules, but half of him had expected it. After all, that is why Tom kept Icarus around. He was an outstanding soldier by his side, always at the front line, always willing to risk everything for their cause.

"Excellent job, boys," the Professor praised them, which was a natural occurrence for the two of them. "Now, everyone, I want you to grab a partner and practice the charm and the deflection spell. Off you go!"

The tables in the room started moving to the sides, making enough space for the pupils to start their training. Varya looked around, eager to find a partner, and practice her charm. She was quite rusty on her deflection spells, having always mostly practiced the attack.

Elladora walked up to her, lips glossed over with the faintest tint of red, matching her natural scarlet hair. Her eyes held the balance of nature in them, so green that they put the winter trees to shame, but they were glacial. Her expression was not a pleased one, and Varya could tell something was amiss.

"Is everything alright?" she asked her friend, who took out her wand to practice.

"Peachy," Elladora mumbled, her voice obviously tired. Something was bothering her friend, and Varya had a feeling that it had something to do with Ivy.

"Did you argue with Ivy again?"

Her roommate's features darkened, and she shot a look to where Ivy was practicing her spell with Alphard.

"I just do not get it, how nobody can see her for who she is. She walks around so mighty, putting down everyone that does not share the same opinion as hers, and she blasts Tom each chance she gets. Nevertheless, she is no different; her family is no different."

Varya frowned, slightly confused at what the redhead was saying. It was true that Ivy came from the same circle as most of them, but she did not have the same hatred in her heart. Especially when compared to Tom, who had a horrifying future ahead of him unless he somehow managed to change.

"I feel like you are judging her quite harshly. She is nothing like Tom," said Varya, trying to defend her friend while also being considerate to Elladora. She did not know how deep the bad blood ran between the two girls.

Elladora glared at her, obviously not pleased with her friend defending her nemesis, "At least the rest of us are truthful about who we are, Varya."

"Are you really?" probed Varya, suddenly irritated at how Elladora was associating herself with Tom and his followers. "Because I would like to know what happened to my Most Macabre Monstrosities volume, Elladora."

Surprise flashed over the girl's features, obviously not expecting the confrontation, but Varya was not as clueless as they had all presumed. She knew it had been her roommate that had taken it, as it was Elladora who had been in the bedroom with her before its disappearance. She had avoided talking to her about it, trying to piece everything together.

Why had Elladora taken her volume? Indeed, it had something to do with Tom, and Varya could only assume that the two of them were working together. That much was clear. However, what did they not want her to see in that book?

"Cat got your tongue?" probed Varya, giving her roommate a jaded look at her silence. "Or did I just not give you enough time to think of a good enough lie?"

"Varya..." her roommate started, eyes downcasted in dishonor, and yet she would not explain herself. "You have to understand me."

"I do not have to do anything, Elladora. If you violate my trust, you do not get to make demands," she said, taking her position to start practicing their duel. "I do not know why you would help Tom, but I am tired of secrecy and backstabbing. If you cannot be truthful with me, then I really have nothing more to say to you."

Selwyn looked ashamed, and it gave Varya indescribable delight to see her squirm underneath her gaze, to make her aware that there was an ultimatum on their friendship. If her loyalty to Tom was above all, then so be it, but at least the two will know where they stand.

"So?" asked Varya, giving her another chance to explain her actions. She was met with silence. "Very well... _Everte Statum_!"

***

It was Icarus that ran after her when class was finished, trying his best to catch up with the girl. Everyone in the classroom had seen Varya Petrov blast Elladora Selwyn, knocking her out against the chamber's bricked wall.

"Not that I did not find it terribly entertaining," he started once he reached her, slightly out of breath, "but did you truly intend on having Selwyn's lights go out with that spell?"

Varya shot him an agitated gaze, not welcoming the fact that he had followed her. Perhaps, it was only her guilt eating up at her conscience, a whispery voice that told her he cared for her too much, but his presence was irksome. She veiled it well, though, like the deceiving wicked witch that she was, always playing her charade.

They all thought that she could not see past their facade; perhaps, they were used to those who believed no Hogwarts student could possibly mean harm, and so everyone pecked small crumbs from their hands. If that was the case, then they were fools, because Varya had the habit of reading people's darkness, and she could see it twisting around their figures, slowly caressing their faces with somber umbrae and anguish.

She froze in her place, thinking about her next words warily, then turned towards Lestrange, who had an anxious expression that made her blood boil.

"I am exhausted from being treated as if I were an outsider, and I am tired of everyone trying to play tricks with my mind. Do you all truly believe that I cannot see past your lies and manipulation?" she breathed out fire, her voice imperious and threatening, chin held high. She inched closer to Icarus, who had gone from worry, to shock, and then to a lopsided smirk.

"Varya," his voice was tentative, and his hand reached out to touch her cheek as he tilted his head to give her a strange gaze, "when will you understand that we are all just doing his bidding? It is not us, but him, who is trying to distort your mind."

Then, his demeanor changed; his gaze carried an uncharacteristic seriosity that Varya welcomed cordially, and she oversaw him as he seemed to struggle to piece his words together, eyebrows downcasted in a stern look.

"Truthfully, none of us know what he is up to, we have not for a while, and even telling you this could bring me great trouble, but understand that he does not do it because he finds you easy to toy with," Icarus admitted, voice hushed and eyes scurrying to scan their surroundings.

The corridor was empty; most wizards and witches were already enjoying a sumptuous meal in the Great Hall. It was only the moving portraits that could witness their exchange, ears peaked at the sight of two students in the secluded corridor, eager to get their hands on the latest gossip. However, Icarus was no fool, and with a simple snap of his finger, he banished the painted figures, leaving a dozen empty canvases to hang on the walls.

"Then why..." Varya began, perplexed at the boy's words.

"Is it not obvious, Petrov?" Icarus questioned her, almost in a disdainful way, as if the truth was right before her, so easy to reach out to, and her fingers were merely skimming its edge, "He thinks of you as a threat, or maybe a weapon he could use, he knows your power. But you are insubordinate to him, and that irks him, so he plays with your mind just to break you because when he does, it will be him to pick up your pieces and mold you into whatever he desires."

Varya's breath came in small gulps, a tremor in her lungs, as she pondered over this information, unsure what to believe. In her mind, Tom Riddle wanted nothing to do with her; he had made that clear by repeatedly pushing her away and deeming her to be pathetic. He shunned her as if she carried the plague and never really spoke much whenever they were together.

In the Great Hall, he made note to stand as far away from her as possible, while still making it seem as if they were acquainted, and he barely passed any words to her, usually just reacting to whatever she said with a sneer.

Perhaps, that was his game, and she had read him so terribly wrong. Varya had thought arrogantly that it was her that could see through him, but it had been him that realized what he had to do in order to gain her attention, to make her come to him. She had thought herself above his manipulation, but in doing so, she had just placed herself in the spider's cobweb, and now she was entangled.

Entangled, not only because she had fallen for it, but because deep down, Varya knew that she could not step away from it, she could not stop trying to figure him out. To a child that grew up with no toys, Tom Riddle had presented himself as a puzzle, and it triggered her emotional response subconsciously.

Varya let out a caustic chuckle, refusing to accept that she had been deceived, that he had made her feel undermined just to rile her up. He had played with her ego, then, knowing very well that the witch was a ticking time bomb if he did that.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked, eyes meeting Icarus', and the admiration in them made her lips part.

"Petrov, I should be frank with you, I have no idea why I am doing this, it almost feels like a betrayal to him, but you make me act out of character," he smiled sincerely, then cupped her chin slowly, "and perhaps, I just like it when chaos trails me, cannot help myself."

Varya scoffed, but there was a slight grin on her face, then she breathed out and looked at him with honesty, "He is not your friend, Icarus."

The boy laughed, his hand falling from her face as he spun around to walk her to the Great Hall. "Of course, he might think so. Riddle believes himself to be above us, that is a fair assumption on your part, and he did approach us because of our blood status, also fair. So yes, one might presume that the boy is somewhat of a blood gold-digger, and to the unknowing eye, it will seem like he is just a leader and us, his devoted followers, accompany him blindly."

"Is that not the truth?"

"Half-truth, he is a cruel leader, almost tyrannical, and perhaps we are mindless for believing in him, but I do see him as a friend of sorts. Furthermore, my observations have led me to believe that, to his best grasp of the concept, we are the closest thing he has to friendship," admitted Icarus.

They walked together, both feeling their hunger grow as they approached the main salon.

"But Rosier-"

"Rosier was bitten by a snake, my darling, nothing more," he said, but when he met her cold eyes, he knew she would not believe it. "Let me say this, then. Whatever Rosier brought upon himself, he did it knowingly."

"That is a macabre way of thinking," said Varya, although she could not deny that, to a certain extent, she agreed.

"We are all the same, even Ivy, and we have gotten ourselves involved in this because we want to," the boy said darkly, stopping right in front of the grand entrance. Then, he turned to her, "We are all on the brink of madness, Varya, and we have atrocious plans for the world. My only wish is that you will see the darkness, that you will embrace it just like we have. There is no place for morality or resentment between us, in the end, one thing matters, and that is power."

The girl watched Icarus Lestrange morph in front of her eyes; she watched him change from the mischievous fifteen-year-old boy that she had exchanged flirtatious gazes with to a cold, ruthless soldier. He was a boy that had been shaped by his beliefs and had welcomed the sinister song of the god of mischief, Loki, to play in his ear, to whisper temptation and sin.

She recognized then, that although he was capable of feelings that Tom Riddle would never dream of, he was not a naive boy that had been pulled in to doing horrifying things by a force he did not understand. His eyes were sharp, determined, and he was as much of a demon as Tom Riddle was.

They all knew what they were doing, they all wanted to be corrupt, and Varya believed that if she were to ask Dumbledore to show her the future again, she would see most of them, as well as their descendants, stand by Tom. They were loyal because they were all just as wicked, and it had been her mistake in assuming otherwise.

It was also her mistake that, at that moment, her heart carried no resentment toward Icarus Lestrange, only understanding.


	19. chapter seventeen

_Tales of Beedle The Bard._

It was almost half-past the sixteenth hour of the clock, and to anyone who passed by the castle's iced gardens, nothing would seem out of the ordinary. The white landscape was much as it had always been, with stone benches lining the castle's wall, blackened trees standing against the violet horizon, and the icy lake reflecting the dusky rays of light that escaped through the clouds. The only unusual thing was, perhaps, the sickly figure of a pale girl scurrying through the trees, but her skin had lost all trace of vitality, and her white robe made her blend in with the snowy surroundings.

There was a book in her hand, and it seemed to be as dull as the December day. A fairy-tale volume, at that, and besides scanty commentary on the odd reading topic for her age, no person would suspect that something was amiss. Her face was stoic, as it had always been, but her soul was in turmoil, and her eyes betrayed the dread that had taken over her mind.

She knew that time was not on her side and that her foolhardiness could cost her significantly, especially while casting such dangerous spells on school grounds. However, the girl's vanity had been hurt recently, and she wanted to prove to herself that she was still capable of such ancient magic.

How she was so composed, nobody would know, the only telling being the faint tremor in her hands and the way her ears were slightly peaked as she carefully listened to her surroundings. But then again, it was unusual for someone to have such mobility in their ears, which in some way added to her strangeness.

More so, could nobody tell that she was supposed to attend her last class of the winter semester, or perhaps, take one of her exams? Indeed, she was not supposed to be out in the chilly nightfall wind, wandering around like a lost deer.

So why did nobody notice her as she entered the Forbidden Forest, and why did nobody try calling out for her once the blizzard hid her shape behind a swirl of vicious snowflakes? Well, perhaps they just did not care, barely registering her moving figure against the flattened horizon, or maybe they were too frightened to stop her.

She was a witch, after all, and not just any kind. The girl had grown far away from this land, and because of that, many of her peers feared her. There were whispers about her skill, fantastic tales about the dragons she had encountered, and the black magic she had performed. And to every fable, there was a planted seed of truth.

***

The ticking sound of the clock that stood on Professor Herbert Beery's desk was infuriating to Maxwell Nott, and although he had finished his exam, he was going over his answers one last time. He threw a meaningless glare at the inanimate object, wishing he could make it shatter into pieces with a simple Reducto curse.

_Fine wooden clock, perhaps created circa 1867 by the emblem on the side, and it has golden speckles in the numbers, so either it is magical, or Herbert Beery enjoys spending unnecessary money on muggle devices._

Maxwell scrunched his nose; he would not put it past his irritating teacher to do such a thing. After all, he had an odd affinity for the arts, perhaps even more so than magic, and his character was weak.

_Made of beech wood, however, so whoever had it designed must be wise. Nevertheless, they could just also be a pompous arse who wants to appear intellectual. Hm, it fits Herbert Beery then._

The Slytherin boy thought back to his own wand, made of the same tree, and a shadowy smirk rested on his lips. Of course, the wand had been extremely submissive to him, but it would rarely work to its full capacity if owned by a narrow-minded wizard. He would not doubt that the clock was simply a reshaped wand, a desperate attempt of a failing wizard to conceal his shame.

Maxwell got up, then, and went over to the desk to hand in his exam. The Professor peered up at him, glasses almost sliding off of his chunky nose in surprise, and he scrambled in his chair to pull himself together.

"Done already, Nott?" he asked, grabbing the boy's paper and skimming it over.

Maxwell nodded.

"Very well, you can leave then, although there is still at least thirty minutes left of the exam, so if you wanted to look over it once again..."

The boy was not paying attention; however, his eyes had been caught by something moving outside of the window, a figure skitting through the harsh blizzard and heading for the forest. He recognized the awfully coiled hair, and his mouth turned downwards in displeasure—Varya Petrov, the bothersome little vixen that had ruffled everyone's feathers.

Maxwell Nott did not like her. As a matter of fact, he found her presence to be insufferable, and alongside Abraxas Malfoy, he was the one who had been the coldest to her. They had never truly spoken, and he did not mind it one bit, too preoccupied with his studies to pay Varya much mind. He found it ridiculous how infatuated Icarus Lestrange was with her, and Maxwell did not understand how the boy could let himself be so distracted from their conquest. That is why Nott had decided not to entertain any of the girls that followed him around the library; he had better things to do.

He shot a glance at the front of the class, where Tom Riddle was scribbling the last few answers on his exam. He admired the boy greatly, as he was an excellent match for him academically, the two always competing against each other. Shamefully, Nott had to admit that he was always coming in second to the boy, because no matter how much time he spent studying, Riddle was just ahead of everyone else. However, Tom was only interested in magical subjects, whereas Nott thirsted for knowledge of all sorts.

Then, Varya Petrov came, and Maxwell Nott had a newfound competitor, which made him despise the girl even more. She was a thorn in his side, always inserting herself in equations she was never meant to be part of. She stuffed her nose in everyone's business, to the point where she had even managed to distract Tom Riddle.

And that, to Nott, was worse than anything, because without Riddle focusing on his ascension to power, the corrupt wizarding world would continue thriving. Maxwell had associated himself with Riddle for multiple reasons, and one of them was their shared opinion that the world was in need of reform. And he thought their leader would be the perfect catalyzer, so ruthless and objective in his ways.

As soon as Varya had made her appearance, however, Riddle had been obsessed with figuring her out, finding a way to use her powers to his benefit. He had even made Maxwell look into her past, her school, and try to determine why she had moved institutions. The search came back empty.

Another reason for which she was infuriating.

Tom Riddle caught his gaze, and when Maxwell nodded towards the foggy window, his eyes followed, widening slightly as he saw Varya Petrov enter the forest. He sent Nott a look, and the boy nodded, knowing very well what it meant.

Maxwell turned to the Professor, who was waiting for him to answer whatever it was that he had asked, holding a feathered quill in his hand.

_Peacock feathered, which means that it came from a male bird, and by the distinguishable traces of green that start at the base of it, most probably sold by Garrick Ollivander. He owns a peacock that loses feathers a lot. Professor Dumbledore has a similar one._

"Thank you, Professor Beery," with that, he headed out of class, not caring for what the actual question had been.

Maxwell was to follow Varya into the woods, and until Tom would finish his exam, he had to keep a careful distance as he observed whatever it was that she was doing. Frankly, he was not the one to usually take on such tasks, Tom preferred others when it came to spying, such as Avery, or even Rosier, but both were at least half an hour away from completing their exam.

He was the one that was supposed to spend his days in the library, collecting all necessary information for whatever scheme they were working on and then report back to Tom, who would then revise the information and determine its value.

Now that he thought of it, he should have realized something was amiss when he did not see Varya taking her exam, but, to be fair, he had never cared for her presence much and had just assumed she was late.

Maxwell went down the moving stairs quickly, his taffy brown hair bouncing, and his eyes, the color of the green moss that grew on the oldest and most robust trees, so protruding and deep, caught the light of each candle that he passed. His clothes were immaculately styled, with his tie so tight it squeezed against his trachea, and gray sweater tucked tidily in dark pants. He made sure to press his robes every night, a technique he had learned from reading so many muggle literature books. For research, of course.

As he reached the first floor, he stopped in front of the girls' bathroom, and a sly sneer made its way to his lips.

_The Chamber of Secrets, constructed by Salazar Slytherin, contains a basilisk. Basilisks are dangerous creatures, born from a chicken's egg, hatched underneath a toad. They are the King of Serpents—information found in the Most Macabre Monstrosities volume._

A small scoff went past his lips as he thought about what they were plotting, about Tom finally opening the Chamber and releasing the monster, implicitly terrorizing every muggle-born witch and wizard in the school. Soon.

However, Maxwell did not care for it, not as much as Riddle or Malfoy, anyhow. Yes, he valued his pure-blood status, and he thought that muggles were inferior and dimwitted, and just as they had terrorized and burned witches for centuries, they would eventually get back what they had given. However, he could care less about muggle-borns. After all, they did possess magic, and as bothersome as they were with their disgusting muggle tendencies, there were other pressing matters.

Of course, he would never bring that up to Tom Riddle.

"Gallopin' gargons, it is cold," Maxwell muttered as he reached the gardens, making his way through the snowy surroundings, one hand to shield his eyes, the other one pulling at his sage green scarf. He scouted out the area, and when he did not see any human in sight, he strolled to the Forbidden Forest.

The trees were dense, crowded, and as he made his way through them, his foot would sometimes get caught in roots that stuck out from the ground, grabbing at his ankles. He stopped and looked around, wondering in which direction the girl could have gone, as the falling flakes had long covered her footprints.

Maxwell had once read in a book, Navigating the Vast Oceans, that sailors tended to always sail along with the wind, and although Varya was no sailor, she was a witch. And witches followed magic, so by deduction, her instincts would have her follow the most vital trace of magic.

For Nott, he sensed it coming from the left, and although he was aware that different types of magic attracted different types of people, he suspected that the faint pulsating dark magic would also attract Varya.

So he took a left, and he followed an old, beaten down trail that led to a small clearance, where trees were more scattered. Sure enough, he saw a frail girl kneeling in the snow, back slightly arched, almost as she was leaning over something.

Maxwell did not notice the blood until he was standing right behind her.

Yes, Varya Petrov was leaning over something: the corpse of a Thestral. The horse-looking creature was sprawled on the ground, deep, murky blood pooling from its cut neck. Its eyes were open, bulbous, almost in agony, and its dark reptilian skin clung to its bones even harsher than usual. The girl was howling, shaking the creature with one arm, and almost hysterical as she screamed at it.

"No, no, no—wake up, please," she whimpered, her wail echoing through the silenced forest. It made Maxwell's skin crawl, her hoarse voice filling the air with anguish, the cry of a helpless soul that had just witnessed the death of a magnificent creature. The boy looked at the ground, finally noticing the gory dagger, its sinful color contrasting against the pureness of the snow. It had been Varya that had killed the Thestral.

_She cut its jugular furrow and let it bleed, effectively cutting all blood circulation from the brain to the heart. It was messy; commonly, one knife is used to cut the skin, another to cut the veins. Moreover, she should have gone for the carotid artery; it bleeds faster. She made it suffer, presumably not deliberately._

"Please, please— wake up!"

The stillness of the forest was deafening, the only movement coming from the girl's shaking figure and the angry snow that swirled in the air. Her cry came out raw, grieved, like a hurricane wreaking havoc on the American east coast, tearing down everything in its way. It was soul-splitting, leaving a hollow space where your heart should beat, almost as if it had plunged a ferocious hand into your chest, trailed the edges of your blood pump, and then pulled it out mercilessly.

Varya's body curled in pain, and her hand flew to where her heart should have been, but instead, she felt a pit so empty and black it made her tremble with agony. It was torturous, and the girl did not understand why it felt like her whole being was pulled in different directions, and why her breathing had stopped fueling her body. It was almost as if every single bone in her body was being broken all at once, and her throat could no longer handle the excruciating terror.

Her sooty tangled hair clung to her face, and her tears had solidified against the harsh wind that blew around the small clearance. Her breath came out worn, shaky, and she gasped for air, her lungs never quite filling. Her trachea was closing swiftly, then opening back again, a cramping sensation in her throat. The world had blurred, and she sensed no smell, heard no voice. The only thing that she saw was the dark blood that lacquered her hands and dress, so achingly striking against the white scenery. Her ears whirred with a newfound frequency, and her head spun, brain tired from the lack of oxygen. Everything was muffled.

Strong arms wrapped around her, and she felt herself being lifted from the ground, but Varya trashed in the person's hold, frantic hands reaching out to grab at the creature's body. It burned, everything burned, and she imagined this is what the fiery pits of Hell that awaited her would feel like. Varya wanted to be dead, gone, forgotten. She wanted the gut-wrenching pain in her body to stop tormenting her.

"No, let me go," she pushed against the stranger's body, limbs flying everywhere, and her vision clouded with tears. "— He is in pain; I have to help him."

"Breathe, Varya," said Tom, as he tried pulling her away from the deceased creature. He gave Maxwell a look, and the boy headed over to the cadaver, pulling out a wand. With a swift motion, the body burst in flames, the dark smoke rising to the sky, to Heaven.

"What are you doing?" Varya's voice was rough as she continued struggling, now reaching out to Maxwell with hatred in her eyes. "Stop! I have to bring him back."

"It is gone, Varya. You have to calm down." Tom grabbed her shoulders, spinning her around to meet his eyes, and lowered both of them to the ground, and in the snow. The girl had stopped screaming, eyes locked with the Slytherin prefect, but she was still shaking heavily. The pain was unbearable, and yet, when Tom Riddle touched her, it was as if her whole existence was numb, and the only thing she felt were his hands on her shoulders.

"I did not mean it, Tom. You have to believe me," she wailed, hands grasping his arms, her eyes puffy and reddened.

Tom threw a glance at Maxwell, who had picked up the bloody dagger, and was now scrutinizing it.

_Made of silver, one of the few things that can kill magical creatures regardless of their origin. The markings on the handle indicate that it was forged in the Eastern part of the continent, although it is hard to indicate where. Varya Petrov is probably the owner, and it was most likely given to her by her school as a defense against the monsters they encountered._

Tom drew in a deep breath, trying to shake off the irritation at having to deal with the mess of emotions in front of him. He did not like facing something he did not understand, and Varya's regret at killing the creature was baffling to him. He could not comprehend her reaction and found it awfully dramatic. The dagger indicated that Varya had stepped into the forest intending to kill something and that she had not acted out of self-defense.

"Why did you kill it?" he asked, his arms burning where she touched him. He felt as if he was holding a fragile vase in his hands, something that he had the power to break and torture, and it gave him an indescribable thrill.

"I did not mean it, Tom. I did not kill it, I just..." her words were mumbled, almost hard to understand, and Tom had to bit back a remark at how she should not use his name. He hated it, and his blood boiled when she uttered it, but he did not want to have to deal with more tears. He was repulsed as it was.

"You what?" he asked, trying his best to modulate his speech.

"I— I was testing my magic, I was supposed to bring it back—" Varya sobbed, turning to look back at the dead Therestral, but Tom grabbed her head and spun it back to face him, holding her chin with force and staring in her petrified eyes. "Why is it this weak, Tom? Why can I not perform magic?"

Maxwell approached them and tossed a book at the two, hitting Varya's leg. Tom grabbed it, then looked at the title— _Tales of Beedle The Bard_.

His jaw clenched, realization setting in. In a desirous attempt to prove that her magic was still alive, Varya had come into the forest and executed a magical creature, hoping that she could revive it. However, she had failed because her magic was not what it once was, as her mind had declined. And Tom knew exactly what had caused it.

Now. Now was the time to act.

Tom's grip on her head tightened, almost forceful, and the girl's hands flew to his, trying to pry them away. His stare was aloof, detached, as he looked into her orbs. His pupils dilated, a black storm taking over the aquamarine ocean, and he pried into Varya's mind. He saw the crumbling walls, falling as they were stricken by the mighty sword of despair and anguish, and with a final push, he entered her fenced mind.

"Stop, stop it hurts," she breathed, trying to fight against the invasion, doing her best to keep her mind locked. However, she was weak, Tom had made sure of it, and her mind was a mess of shattered remnants, a shell of what it had once been.

He dived in deep, looking through her memories one by one, and he analyzed, he memorized. He saw her grief, her fury, her panic. There was no love, and he could barely see any happiness, most of her memories clouded in black dust.

Sorrow, resentfulness, loneliness, abandonment, terror, trauma, hurt, betrayal.

Then, he finally saw it, the memory that he was looking for, the one that he had been intending on extracting this whole time.

_Varya was opening the doors of what seemed to be a cathedral, but it was almost as if God had turned its back on it, letting it turn to a room full of evil and immorality. She walked towards the front, passing multiple portraits that watched her with remorse in their eyes, an unspoken admittance of iniquity._

_Two men stood at the front, one of them was drenched in black, and Tom felt her despair, her distress at his presence. His face was repulsive, aged by corruption and sin, and it carried a hideous sneer._

_"And why would I send her to your tainted school?" his voice was uncivil, a slight creek in each of his words. "Have you all not taken enough from us? Have you no shame in corrupting the true dark power of our Lord?"_

_Then, Varya turned towards the other man, and Tom's blood went cold. Albus Dumbledore._

_"Do you really wish to go against me?" He asked, voice as displeasing as it had always been, and it made Tom want to shatter him from Varya's memory. "Must I remind you what is to happen if I let a word slip of your true practice, Dalibor? I do not believe the Ministry of Magic would take kindly to your experiments."_

_"Petrov, I would like to introduce to you the great Albus Dumbledore of Hogwarts." Tom did not miss the sarcasm that drenched the foul man's timbre, and he admired it. Someone was standing against the person he detested most. "He is making quite a demand, you see. He thinks that he is beyond the reach of our Lord and wishes for you to negate your power by attending his school."_

_Tom's whole being was filled with repugnance when he felt her hope, when he saw the colorful threads that connected Varya's body to Dumbledore's. He was shining of pure white because of her emotions— hope and confusion._

_"Varya Petrov, I have heard a great deal about your family." The fear was back. "Do not worry, young one. I am not here to reprimand you. I am here to offer you a chance at retribution." And then it was gone._

_The other man, the one that Tom did not recognize, let out an enraged snarl, then marched out of the door, slamming the door behind him._

_"How?" It was Varya that was talking now, and her voice was very different from her normal one. It was beaten down, yes, and timid, but it was more animated than Tom had ever heard it._

_"What do you know of fate, Varya?"_

The memory shattered, and Tom felt the girl go limp in his arms, closing her mind to him. His wrath bubbled, and he almost felt the need to grab the dagger from Maxwell's hands and put it against her throat, torture her until she regained consciousness.

He got up, dragging Varya's body with him, and then he picked her up, letting her legs dangle to the side. Maxwell watched as the boy turned around and started his way out of the woods, and he stood in his spot, frustrated out of his mind. He knew that Tom was using Legilimency on the girl, but why had he stopped? Even is she had passed out, he could still dive in if he put enough stress on her physical body.

_Mercy. Defined by the dictionary, this word is usually associated with the act of compassion or forgiveness towards someone when the other party can punish or harm them. Synonyms: pity, leniency, humanity._


	20. chapter eighteen

Shaded spots everywhere, whirring, stirring around uncontrollably. The noise of an antique radio that is not quite finely tuned to the proper station, its frequency just slightly missing the precise spot. The conscious mind being somewhere between alert and asleep. Muffled sounds that cannot be pieced together, and voices that should be familiar, but are just blended in a sturdy bouquet. The incapacity to feel one's corporal being, and yet, a vague tingling dancing across the skin, stimulating nerves that are working overtime to get the body to feel something again. Then, the light starts slipping in, and the room is almost a Renaissance oil painting, so blurred and disfigured that one might think the painter was just throwing his brush at a canvas, thinking, "I will just make something of it later." The sound comes back in.

"Albus, you know, just as well as I do, that this would not have happened if it was a scanty intake," the voice was pistillate, although it had an edge to it, which indicated that the person speaking must have been well over thirty.

"So what are you saying, Madame Aduddel? That she exposed herself to it repeatedly on purpose?" asked Dumbledore, skepticism in his voice, but also a slight nuance of concern.

"Teenagers these days enjoy experimenting, reasonably, Miss Petrov—"

"That is not what happened here, rest assured, and it is best to ask the student what transpired than make such outrageous claims," his voice was final.

Varya's eyelids fluttered open, then shut back immediately when the fluorescent light bounced against her retina, setting her nerves afire with distress. A groan left her mouth, attracting the attention of the two adults, who immediately rushed to her bed.

"Miss Petrov, are you all right?" came the voice of the Matron as she grabbed Varya's hand, trying to get to sit up straight slowly. "Easy now, too much motion will make your breakfast end up on the floor."

Varya did not remember eating breakfast. As a matter of fact, her mind was so disorganized that she had no idea what had happened. Her eyes took in the room, a chamber with tall ceilings and copper-colored walls, a chandelier dangling in the middle, illuminating the rows of infirmary beds. She was in the Hospital Wing.

"How did I end up here?" she asked, memories still foggy, and Dumbledore exchanged a look with Madame Aduddel that the girl did not miss. "What is it?"

"We were hoping you could answer a few questions for us, darling, if you do not mind," said the woman, handing her a cold glass of water and instructing her to take tiny sips. Varya nodded, then gulped on the water ferociously, earning a disapproving glare.

"Varya," started Albus Dumbledore as he approached her bed. "What do you remember?"

"Not much," she admitted, trying to untangle her thoughts to her best ability. "I was in the forest—"

She gasped. The wave of horror that struck her was unimaginable as the clouds that flooded her brain moved to the sides, allowing the shine of truth to pass through and hit her right in the face. The forest, the white snow covering the vegetation, the Therestral she watched from afar, amazed by its majesty, the blade slashing against its neck, and, finally, its lifeblood on her hands.

"Yes?" probed the Matron, but Varya shot Dumbledore a despairing look through her watering eyes, breath unsteady, that made the Professor take a step back. The girl looked as if she was about to erupt at any second, grief radiating across her face, and the man signaled Madame Aduddel to let them speak in private. The woman was not pleased, but obeyed the instruction, leaving the Hospital Wing.

The second the door shut, Varya started sobbing loudly, resting her head on her knees, locks falling around her. Her body shook with each cry, and Dumbledore sat across from her, watching as she broke down.

"What happened, Varya?"

She raised her gaze to meet his, orbs already painted with crimson, and in this state, the gray underneath her eyes was more noticeable than ever. Varya did not know where to start or how to explain the situation without getting herself in trouble. Dumbledore had made it clear— she was not to practice dark magic, and yet she had not listened. Not only that, but Tom had gazed into her mind, and she did not know what the boy had seen. Ultimately, she had messed up.

"I killed a Thestral," she eventually admitted, wincing at the Professor's disgruntled look. "I wanted to bring it back with necromancy and—"

"Necromancy?" his voice thundered, making the girl's back hit the bed's heading in shock. "Varya, do you have any inkling what that implies? You have said it yourself, nature requires stability, so what makes you think you can play with that?"

"Of course, I know!" she argued back, her voice cracking. "We were thought such rituals at school, and as long as I am taking a life, I can also give it back. The balance is in my hands."

"Is that what they told you?" the Professor chuckled, dragging his hand across his face. "I knew Dalibor was a vicious man, but to lie like this, to endanger the life of his disciples..."

"What do you mean?" the girl asked, forehead creasing with apprehension at his warning.

"Varya, if you give life back, you have to pay the price for it, and usually, it takes away from your vitality. It breaks a part of you, and you can never get that back." Dumbledore explained, sitting down on the bed across from her, stroking his short beard. He was a man in his forties, but his eyes betrayed knowledge beyond his years.

"But— is that why my magic was weakened?" she breathed, dread setting in. That was improbable, was it not? She had not performed a successful ritual. She was already depleted of her power, and the incantation used to call upon the ghost of Martha Flamming was not resurrection. It was spiritualism. Sure, it was still perceived as black magic, but it was not necromancy.

"Have you been performing it?" his steely eyes fell on her again, and Dumbledore did not know how to react to her words.

"No," she shook her head rapidly. "Never succeeded since I came to Hogwarts. I did it in my third and fourth year, three times, always on little birds that had been slaughtered for practice. Nevertheless, I never felt my magic sink like this."

Albus got up quickly, heading to the table where the Matron kept most of her vials and herbs. Varya watched him mess around the drawers, then pick up a jar of something, and head back to her. He handed it over, analyzing her reaction, but the girl was just confused. She opened it, slowly sniffing in the scent, her mind going a little woozy. It was familiar.

"What is this?" she asked, picking up a dried leaf and twirling it around her finger. So familiar.

"It is a common herb used for potions called Belladonna," he said, and Varya looked up at him, wondering where she had heard the name before. "You have used its essence in class before. It is known to be extremely poisonous when ingested, causing hallucinations, delirium, and in extreme cases, death."

The girl still showed no reaction, but her mind was gradually turning, slowly piecing the puzzle together. Dumbledore pursed his lips, hands clasped behind his back, then he continued.

"It can be very harmful, but reckless teenagers have used it before for its...psychoactive proprieties, and if taken over a long time in micro amounts, it has been proved that it can reduce a witch's strength," he finished, then looked at her with intent. "Now, you must be very honest with me, Varya— have you been taking it as a hallucinogen?"

The girl gasped, shocked at what her teacher was implying. "No, Professor! I would never do such a thing, I swear. I have never heard of this—"

A small pause, then realization kicked in.

"Witch's berry," she whispered, then looked up at him with wide eyes. "Witch's berry! My roommate, Ivy Trouche, is allergic to it! She had been complaining about her allergies acting up, she thought it was because of cat hair, but perhaps, it was this."

"You believe that Ivy Trouche has tried to poison you?"

Varya frowned. No, that did not make sense, Ivy had nothing to gain out of doing it, and if she had been the one to harm her, she would have picked something that she was not allergic to, as that would immediately give the girl away. It had to be someone else...

She thought back to when she had begun feeling sick, and a memory flashed before her, a clear image of the Great Hall— Elladora Selwyn brewing her tea. Then, Slughorn's party, Abraxas Malfoy handing her a golden cup of cloudy liquid. Finally, the Common Room, and Nicholas Avery and his jar of tea herbs, their intricate scent so distinguishable it was hard not to remember it.

Varya let out a bitter chuckle, wrath building up inside her like a force of nature, ready to unleash its chaotic energy against the world. They had been poisoning her, trying to exhaust her body, and, like the sweet effect of a domino arrangement, mess with her spirit and magic. Once again, she had been outwitted by Tom's scheming and had let her guard down around him, allowing the boy to enter her mind.

The despair that had plagued her mind for months, it had been caused by him, and when he watched her fall to her knees in that abandoned house, Tom had known the reason behind it. He had called her pathetic, his deceitful intention so clear to her now, using his words to shatter her hope and pride. And when he had waited outside, she thought it was out of courtesy, that he did not want her to walk alone in the winter night. That was flawed on her part— she had known Tom was a ruthless python, a man who cared for nothing except quenching his thirst for glory. No, Tom Riddle had waited for her, walked behind her, only to test if she had let her guard down enough.

Then, when her soul had been split in two after murdering the innocent creature out of desperation, he had come out of nowhere, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight, allowing her to cling to him as she indulged in her suffering, trying to fill out the bitterness that the killing had left in her with Tom's warmth. But he was a reptile, and reptiles were cold-blooded.

Suddenly, Varya though back to Icarus, to the boy that had seemed so infatuated with her, and that had made her question her feelings. Had that been a charade as well, a way to mellow her out? If Tom had not succeeded in the forest, would Icarus have shattered her heart, leaving her with no physique, no mind, and no soul?

"— _he plays with your mind just to break you because when he does, it will be him to pick up your pieces and mold you into whatever he desires_."

A part of her wanted to let herself believe that Lestrange had tried to warn her. However, the betrayal had been like a dagger to her skin, slowly ripping at her epidermis as he trailed it around her body, and as much as her heart yearned out to the trickster, and, in some way, even to the Slytherin prefect, she felt cold.

They had lied, they had toyed with her like she was not even a human being, and had not cared if they would scar her for the rest of her life. And, perhaps, they had, as Varya felt emptier than ever, almost drowning in the loneliness that surrounded her.

Furthermore, Elladora, the person whom she had always regarded as her first friend in this miserable castle, had been the one to continually manipulate her, to the point where she did not know if any of their shared moments were real or merely a show that the cherry-haired girl had put on. When had she started playing her game, the moment they met in their shared bedroom? Or, was it later, during all of the early breakfast meals and nights spent awake, giggling about whatever crossed their mind?

The poison had to be hers, although Varya had no clue how she had procured it, because Ivy had been allergic to it, and the two often shared clothes despite their mutual hatred. In fact, the jar of herbs should still be somewhere in their room, Varya realized.

"Varya?" Dumbledore asked, concern stitched to his face as he watched the girl's fallen appearance, almost as if she had suffered the greatest heartbreak in the history of humankind. She looked up at him, then patted her eyes dry with the white sheets on her infirmary bed. No, she would not shed any more tears for those conniving serpents.

"I am sorry, Professor, but there is somewhere I must be," she said, then got up from the bed, ignoring the way her legs wobbled and her surroundings spun. She walked out of the Hospital Wing, not caring if, at that moment, Dumbledore would find her turbulent.

Varya wandered down the corridors, her march filled with fury, and she ignored the Ravenclaws that looked at her passing figure with judgment, hellbent on confronting those whom she had once seen as—

As what? Had she ever been friends with the group? As much as they talked to her on every given occasion, she did not think that this was friendship. Although she had never experienced it, Varya knew that whatever relationship she had with her housemates was much more complicated than that.

The Common Room was cold, and Varya's figure trembled, still weakened by the poison and the traumatizing experience she had had — but that was something she would think about later — and walked to her bedroom.

Much as she had expected, Elladora Selwyn was laying in her bed, hanging upside down from the bed's edge, and skimming over a glossy muggle magazine with loathing on her face. Varya shut the door forcefully, and her roommate got up at the sound, cascade of red being tossed over her shoulder.

"Oh, Varya, you should see the ridiculous fashion these muggles— is everything all right?" she asked with concern, noticing the angry glare her roommate was throwing her. Varya pulled out her wand quickly, pointing it at the girl, which shot her hands up in the air. "Merlin's beard, Varya! What are you doing? Is this about Ivy, again? Because I did not mean—"

"Where is it?" Varya's voice was so controlled it sent a shiver down Elladora's spine, and in the somberness of the room, she could not help but notice how her menacing glower resembled that of Tom Riddle.

"Where is what?" she asked, bewildered, although a quailing sensation of trepidation had started making its way down her throat, gripping at her lungs.

Elladora took in her friend's appearance— her tangled hair had been pulled back in a distasteful low ponytail, and untamed strands were jabbing out in all directions. It stuck to Varya's face in some parts, almost as if the perspiration had glued it down. Her eyes were enraged, and the girl looked like she would mean whatever curse would slip past her bristly lips. It was then that Elladora noticed the hospital gown that she was wearing, a wrinkled robe thrown over it in a hurry, and that her feet were bare. Varya looked as if she had lost her mind.

"I swear, Selwyn, if you lie to me one more time—" she huffed, approaching her roommate violently, her significant steps stationing her right in front of the wide-eyed girl, "where is the stupid jar of witch's berry that you hid in here, you arrogant wench?"

Elladora felt herself go still, knowing that she had been caught in the act, and for a moment, she let herself curse whomever it was that had slipped up. Then, her gaze went cold, and a malicious sneer fell on her lips, pulling out her wand to match Varya's stance.

"So, you finally figured it out?" she taunted, her shoulders swinging in derision as she cornered the Slavic girl. "Was it Icarus? We all doubted how long he could watch you suffer before he went rabid. Or, perhaps, it was Rosier, the nasty dog, always barking his mind away. He has no filter, that one, and it will get him killed one day."

Varya's scowl deepened as the two of them circled each other, ready to blast a curse or deflect it just as quickly.

"You poisoned me for months, made me slowly lose my mind, and for what, Elladora? So Tom could acknowledge your presence in the room?" she said incensed.

"Riddle? Well, of course, it was him that gave the order, but if you believe that I did it out of anything other than loyalty, then you are just as obtuse as the likes of Trouche," she cackled sinisterly, then sighed, "Do you not understand, Petrov? Change is coming, and it is already too late."

"You can go to hell, Selwyn," Varya spit her words at her with hatred, but she could not ignore the knife of betrayal that twisted at her soul.

"Now, do not be so harsh, darling," laughed Elladora, suddenly drawing her wand back and placing it in her robes. She sat down on the edge of her bed, relaxed, with her head turned defiantly, almost as if taunting Varya and letting her know that she was not afraid of her. "You are so talented, Varya, and it would be a shame for you not to listen to Riddle's words. His vision is magnificent, so bewitching, he will cleanse this school, and once we get him everything he needs, he will reform the wizarding world."

"Do you truly believe that I will join you after you have made me suffer so greatly?"

"Suffer?" the girl derided, eyes narrowed in aversion, "If that is suffering, then perhaps we have all overestimated you. Consider it hazing, at most, a way to test you. We have great plans for you, Varya, and despite everything, I do see you as a friend."

"Do you poison all of your friends?" Varya scoffed, repulsed by what her roommate was suggesting.

"Only some," she said it so smoothly it almost sounded true, "and you can deny it all you want, you can drive yourself mad and claim that you hate darkness, and that you are not intrigued by our schemes, but I know the truth. Heck, even Malfoy knows it! You are dark, impulsive, a reckless witch with too much power for her own good, but you are also clever, and your devilish mind is up to no good."

Varya thought about her words, her hands grasping her wand tighter, and she lunged forward, pressing it against Elladora's neck with brute force. Petrov swallowed harshly, trying to bat away the part of her mind that was inclined to agree with the pure-blood witch, that screamed at her to dive into the sinfulness that surrounded the group of Slytherins.

It ate at her brain, almost begging and tugging, her magic pulsating through her system, looking for a dark release. She had grown up surrounded by devilry, up in the mountains that many believed covered the entrance to Hell, where Satan felled up those who had wronged in their lives, then stirred them in a gruesome cauldron. Varya understood it better than anyone; she followed it wherever it went and studied it carefully, attracted to its morbid sneer. Perhaps, that is why she was so curious about Tom Riddle, always letting her gaze trail to him.

However, Varya had been assigned a task, and as much as she wanted to abandon it, her moral quality not being the best, she had seen what would become of the world, of Tom, if she did not act. The monster that would kill mercilessly, would turn wizards and witches against each other, and instead of reform, he would bring Hell down on the magic world.

In their own way, the seven little devils that made up the group thought that they were righteous, and that they would bring salvation on the world that had been corrupted, seeing themselves as idealistic villains who had to be wicked for the greater good. Somewhere along history, however, they would lose themselves, corrupted by the power that they would achieve, always in need for more, and their ideals would be tossed to the side.

Varya could not let that happen, and as much as she resented what they had done, she could not help herself in caring for them. Even for the godforsaken Malfoy, who had been nothing but an arse to her, she felt some sort of responsibility. She was always walking the line between corrupt and just, and she hoped that, if her pull was strong enough, she could bring them all with her on the better side.

However, she could not do that if she opposed them. They had crushed her once, and although Varya though herself to be intelligent and resourceful, they could probably do it again. They came from pure-blood families, owned wealth beyond the imagination, had connexions worldwide, and had a leader with an iron fist. Varya had nothing.

So as much as she wanted to jinx the snarkiness out of Elladora Selwyn, Varya knew that she had to play their game in order to win, and so she lowered her wand, taking in a deep breath to settle the flame that still burned beneath her skin.

Elladora smirked, "Good girl."

"If any of you ever do this again, I will bring hellfire down on you, and I will not stop until your wailings plague the nightmares of every villager in Hogsmeade," Varya's voice was grim, her tone carrying no hint of hesitation as she openly threatened her roommate. Elladora's eyes enlarged, and she let out a nervous laugh, ignoring the way dread settled in her bones.

The door of the room opened, and both of them turned to see a panicked looking Ivy standing in the doorframe, her cheeks crimsoned, and her eyes filled with distress. Her breath came out in heaps, almost as if she had run up to them, and her blonde hair fell over her shoulders in an uncharacteristic mess. Ivy considered her roommates, noticing the tension, but her brain was too fogged to care.

Terrible news spread like wildfire, and to the peaceful castle, the happenings of the last day of classes before vacation were catastrophic.

"Have you not heard?" the sandy-haired girl asked, docile eyes alight with a mixture of horror and panic.

"Heard what?" asked Varya, perplexed, but when she turned to Elladora, the other girl carried a judicious look on her face.

Ivy came closer to them, shutting the door behind her, then walked in a rush to her desk. She picked up her wand, then stuffed it in her pocket. She looked spooked out, a hint of tremor in the prefect's hands. The news had, of course, terrified her, but some part of her mind, her subconscious, screamed at her that something more sinister would come to haunt Hogwarts soon.

"They found a petrified student in the hallways," she breathed out, looking Varya straight in the eyes, "We have all been called to the Great Hall."

Thus, it had begun.


	21. chapter nineteen

The Great Hall resembled the gate of Hell; that is the only way Varya could describe the horrified disciples that burst through its doors. There was some raucous, but the solemn silence dominated the room. Headmaster Armando Dippet stood at the teacher table, looking over the sea of wizards and witches with a ghastly face.

Varya sat at the Slytherin table, Elladora, on her side, whereas Ivy had to stand at the front alongside Tom Riddle. The boy's eyes studied the room swiftly, almost as if he were searching for someone, and then they met Varya's. The girl watched his body unwind, and a scowl took over her face. His posture did not indicate that he was furious at her, which was strange. He had invaded her mind earlier and had surely seen something that could implicate her with Dumbledore; perhaps he even saw the pensieve. And as much as Tom Riddle was a stoic sociopath, the revelation of his future should have broken his impassive mask.

Then, he does not know the truth yet, Varya thought, relieved at the notion.

"Students of Hogwarts," the Headmaster began, his voice not carrying its usual quirkiness, "I look across the room, and I can already see many terrified expressions, which leads me to believe that the news has already spread."

Varya glanced around the room, and sure enough, many children seemed to be spooked of what they had heard. A student had been petrified. How? They did not know, but the castle had been a safe space for most of them, Varya included, and now, that idea had been shattered.

"A student has been found petrified, and—" he waved his hand over the crowd, trying to calm down the tsunami of whispers that had started, "—as I was saying, we have unfortunately found Arthur Thompson petrified on the first floor, and although he is still alive, his body is completely frozen. We do not know the cause of this, and we will keep investigating, but for now, one thing is clear— Hogwarts is no longer safe."

The feeling of deja-vu was prominent, and suddenly Varya found herself thrown back into the past, when something similar had happened at Scholomance. A boy had encountered an evil creature, and his fate was tragic— decapitated and impaled on one of the school's crosses. Although Arthur had not been subjected to the same bloody ending, Varya could not help but wonder if whatever had petrified him was also of monstrous origins.

"We will not be closing the school, as there is still a whole semester of magic ahead of you, but we will be asking all students to go back home during the winter break so that we can carry out our investigation without interruption," he continued, earning a few mutters of disapproval. Nobody spoke up, in any case. After all, someone had nearly been murdered.

The thought of not being able to stay at Hogwarts was upsetting to Varya, as the idea of going back to Transylvania was not something she looked forward to. She had no house to go back to, as her guardian probably thought her dead, and the school was off-limits to anyone except the current students. Sure, she could, perhaps, ask them to make an exception, but something was knocking slightly at her brain, almost similar to trepidation, telling her not ever to return.

"Where will you go?" asked Elladora, almost as if she was reading her thoughts. Varya fenced her mind once again, unsure of what other potion the girl could have given her. Her hand flew to her wand, and she fought back every urge to hex the sly fox. She did not answer her roommate, merely shrugging and giving her a scowl, but her mind was slowly turning.

Of course, Rosier had invited her to spend a few days at his estate, but after what had just happened, she was hesitant. Although going would help her further her assignment, a part of her could not help but fear being in the same room as all of them.

"Your prefects will escort you back to your rooms, and starting today; your curfew will be at dusk. The only exceptions made will be for classes that start later, such as Astronomy. Everyone caught sneaking around past sunset will not only have house points deducted, but will also be severely questioned."

The Slytherins started getting up, waiting for their prefects to come and join them; however, it was only Ivy Trouche that came to lead the group. Varya threw a glance over her shoulder and saw that Tom Riddle had stayed behind to discuss something with Dippet. She bit her lip, contemplating if what she was about to do was of sane mind, then, as the Slytherin house started walking down the stairs, she ducked behind a pillar.

"You should be going back to your Common Room!" came the nagging voice of a portrait. Varya looked at it, eyes narrowed. It was a middle-aged wizard that the girl recognized as Brian Gagwilde III, and he was wearing an atrocious outfit that made him appear more of a buffoon than the descendant of Headmaster Brian Gagwilde.

Varya was about to take out her wand, then understood that it would emit a low light if she used it, and so she settled on casting a silencing spell with her hand. She marveled at its naturality, the way her magic had seemed to start building itself up again slowly, but her thoughts were interrupted by a distant sound of footsteps.

With the corner of her eye, Varya watched Tom Riddle take the moving stairs upwards, contrary to the downward direction that led to the Slytherin Common Room. He glanced briefly over his shoulder, eyes trailing his surroundings, and Varya held her breath as they passed over her general direction. Alas, he did not seem to notice her, as he continued going up.

After a few seconds, Varya bit back the dreadful feeling that filled her guts, and made her way up the stairs, keeping a generous distance between the two of them. Tom kept climbing the stairs until he reached the seventh floor, casting charms left and right towards the portraits, making them not notice his presence.

Eventually, they both arrived at an empty corridor that Varya had never seen before. By the looks of it, it was not frequented, the dust had settled on the tiles, creating a copper-colored hue on the carved stone, and an old-fashioned chandelier was placed in the middle of the ceiling. Varya looked at it, noticing the old cobwebs, and her skin crawled at the idea of spiders. However, there seemed to be none.

Her eyes darted back to Tom when she heard a low rumble, almost similar to the one in Diagon Alley when the bricks had parted for her, and she stared in wonder at the sumptuous wooden door that appeared out of thin air. Tom pushed it open, and then it shut right back, disappearing after him.

"Merlin's beard," the girl said, still in awe at the secret that she had just discovered. Perhaps, Hogwarts was not as shallow as she had once thought.

With small steps, she made her way to where the boy had stood, her mind only focusing on her need to find out what was going on. She touched the wall, knocked on it softly, and listened, but nothing seemed to bring back the heavy door. Varya sighed, frustrated at the puzzle before her, then, she heard the familiar rumbling from her right.

Her eyebrows furrowed in turmoil, and she followed it, turning the corner right, only to find a small trapdoor on the wall. She looked at the golden doorknob dubiously, discerning she would have to crouch to get in, but Varya could not back out now. Swinging the small door open, she crawled in the tiny, dark space that stood behind it, already reluctant to move forward. Then, she heard his voice.

"Were any of you followed?" asked Tom, looking around the table at the concerned expressions of his devoted followers. The six of them shook their heads, and he cast them a pleased smirk. Varya crawled further, and noticed a small crack in the wall in front of her, almost like a keyhole, and she placed her eye in front of it, peeking through to see the room.

It was dim, and the fire that illuminated the chamber glowed of brilliant green, casting obscure shadows on the faces of the people that stood crowded around a rectangular table. Varya immediately spotted Elladora Selwyn's fiery hair, and, next to her, Maxwell Nott, and her heart churned at the memory of being found in the Forbidden Forest. She could distinguish a few other faces, such as the insidious Nicholas Avery, or the heedless Icarus Lestrange. The last two had their backs turned to her, but she easily recognized the platinum hair that belonged to Abraxas Malfoy, which led her to believe that Renold Rosier was the last person in the room.

"—deal with it?" Varya's attention snapped back to the conversation, and she cursed herself for not hearing the first part of Nicholas Avery's sentence, as he slowly twirled a small dagger in his hand. The girl realized that it was hers, and that the boy had made no effort to clean the blood off of it, probably enjoying the dried redness that reminded him just how infirm life was.

"Are you purposely being obtuse, Avery?" came the golden voice of Elladora, as she turned to glare at the boy. "That is the last thing we need, you running around and torturing—"

"Persuading!"

"—students! We already have a grand problem on our hands, and I cannot comprehend why everyone is so elusive to it." she finished, throwing her petite hands in the air. Varya almost snorted at her delicacy, and she wondered what terrible poisons those fingers had tinkered with.

"Care to share it with us?" asked Tom, his stern voice making the girl pull herself together, rage suddenly dissolving into obedience.

"Petrov," she spat Varya's name as if it was the wickedest thing in the world.

"Varya is not a problem," answered Icarus, obviously pestered by the girl. Tom nodded, gesturing slightly towards the boy, almost as if showing his agreement.

"Really?" Elladora chuckled bitterly, "Then why did she threaten me with her wand in our room, Icarus? She knows! She knows we have been messing with her, and despite what you believe, she will not let it be."

Varya's view was suddenly obstructed by what she could only assume to be Riddle's back, as he had positioned himself against whatever wall she was peeking through. The girl almost let out a string of profanity, irritated by the fact that she could no longer see what was happening.

"Avery," that was all Tom said before a chair scraped against the floor, and a blood-curling screech filled the room. Varya's eyes watered at it, as she realized the scream belonged to her roommate, and that Tom had probably signaled Avery to silence her disobedience.

Tom Riddle was a monster who did not care for the safety or well-being of his followers, and Varya shuddered at what Icarus had once told her, that they all believed that every punishment bestowed on them was deserved. They were brainwashed, delirious with devotion to their leader, to the point they did not realize that they were being tortured into submission.

"Thank you, Avery," Tom's voice was faraway, modulated, and although Varya did not know what Nicholas had done to Selwyn, she could not help the revulsion that flowed through her blood. The boy was not even phased by the terrifying scream that his friend had let out. He almost sounded pleased.

Then, he moved out of the way, and Varya scrambled to look through the peephole once again. Elladora was no longer in her view to her disappointment, and she wondered where the girl had gone.

"I believe that we should finish this tomorrow, Dumbledore is already sniffing around, and you must not be caught after curfew. Head back to the dungeons, make sure you are not seen. Nicholas, stay behind."

The sound of chairs being dragged across the floor filled the chamber, and Varya watched all of them, except Nicholas, head out of the door in silence. Tom Riddle stood with his face toward the fireplace, but as soon as the room emptied, he turned toward Avery and gave him a small hand signal that Varya did not understand. Then, he suddenly disappeared from the view, and Varya leaned forward to try to find him.

The wall in front of her disappeared, and she fell against the stone floor of the chamber, head clashing right against it painfully. She let out a small yelp of surprise; then, her hand flew up to where her head hurt.

"Eavesdropping is not lady-like," sighed Tom, who was now leaning over her fallen figure with an amused smirk.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked as Avery helped her get off of the floor. She dusted off her robes, then followed the two boys to the table.

"Do you know what room this is, Petrov?" asked Tom as he sat down across from her, eyes analyzing her face. She looked drained, yes, but a slight rose hue had made its way back to her face, perhaps for the first time in weeks.

Varya shook her head. She had no clue where they were, and she was quite curious. She presumed not many people knew of it; otherwise, the group would not carry out their meetings here.

"The Room of Requirement," he answered her, eyes locking with hers, and it made Varya's heart jump. "It is a room that appears for those in need, and mine was to meet in secrecy, so if something disturbs my wishes, it is only natural that I would be able to tell, do you not agree?"

His voice was condescending, almost as if he was scolding her for her behavior, but Varya did not let her confidence flat out. She wanted answers from him; she wanted to know what game he was playing at and why he had had her roommate do such atrocious things to her.

"I believe that if the conversation is about me, then I am more than entitled to hear it," she said defiantly, then turned her head to Nicholas Avery, who was humming to himself while scrapping against the wooden table with her blade, "My dagger, please?"

He looked up at her extended hand, as her lips were pursed in discontent, but only gave her a sneer as he leaned closer to her. Avery was a beautiful boy, with fawn hair and a healthy bone structure. However, his onyx eyes carried the pits of Hell in them, and now, when he was not modulating his behavior to blend with the clique, Varya could finally see the sociopathic flash that he shot her. He was a deranged man who thought torture was his own game of pleasure, and he was a domineering killer as he relished playing with his pray.

Nicholas Avery had mastered the Tengo charm, a spell known to siphon liquids from materials, and it was not because he tended to spill red wine on his expensive dress shirts. He was Tom's elite assassin, his hands so bloodied that they now always had the vague metallic reek attached to them, no matter how much he scrubbed. He enjoyed doing things the traditional way, rarely using magic, as it could easily be traced back to him. Nevertheless, standard weapons were easier to discard, and there was no trace of evidence that a simple spell could not wipe out.

Instead of handing the girl her knife, he wiped the fresh blood on her robe, crooning to himself quietly, then have her a sinister smirk, perhaps trying to disturb her, but Varya remained impassive, staring at the killer right in the eyes.

"Consider it payment for the trouble you have caused," he jeered, stuffing her knife in his robes. He balanced himself on the chair's back feet, then put his hands behind his neck, staring at the ceiling and closing his eyes.

"Trouble?" Varya raised her eyebrow. If anything, they were the ones that had caused trouble.

"Yes, very much so," it was Tom that spoke this time, his silver tongue twisting each word almost as if it was the uttermost flattery, "We have a lot to talk about, Varya. And you can start by telling me why Dumbledore personally came to transfer you from your school."

So that is all he had seen, Varya realized with ease. Tom did not know of the future, he had not had enough time to unlock that part of her memory, and she was grateful for it. Now, all she had to do was make up a believable lie, one so convincing that there were no loose ends that Tom Riddle could drag on.

"Dumbledore knew my family," that was not what she should have said, and Varya bit back the wince that almost escaped her lips when Tom narrowed his eyes, "and he had promised them to watch over me."

"And it took him fifteen years?" scoffed Tom.

"Well, of course! Everyone thought me dead, Riddle, and he was no exception. Moreover, even if he had come to find me in Romania, you think the Dark Priest announced to the world that I had been recruited? The village thought I was a witch, and they planned to burn me for it. And yes, such practices are still carried out in that part of the world. If Dumbledore came to my old house, he was probably told I had been set on fire!"

Her elaboration surprised her, the pieces suddenly starting to fill in as she continued to tell her story, and she watched as the disbelief in Tom's eyes started to flutter away, turning into curiosity.

"Why did he just not track your magic, then?" it was Avery that asked this time, and the girl wanted to punch him in the face.

"I did not use a wand, you dimwit, how could they track me?" she scoffed, almost as if the answer was so obvious. "You westerners have tied yourself to such objects without objection, but have you ever wondered why they were introduced? To control you! The Ministry can track your wands, and Eastern European sorcerers believe in free practice. We can already practice dark arts, so why would they track us?"

That had been the final nail that set her lie, and she sighed in relief as she watched the two boys exchange a curious glance before Tom slowly nodded. The subject would not be forgotten, but for now, it was enough to satisfy their probing. And until the next time they would start digging, Varya would have enough time to discuss it with Dumbledore.

Then, Tom waved his hand in the air, and a small scroll made its way to his palm. He opened it slowly, then passed it over to the girl. As she picked it up, she could see a long list of names scribbled of it in cursive writing. She recognized some of them, as they belonged to influential families in the wizarding world.

"What is this?" she asked, slowly looking up at the two of them. Nicholas was wearing a prideful smirk on his lips, whereas Tom was watching her with hawk eyes.

"It is a list of the guests that will be at Rosier's gathering over Christmas break," said Tom, and then he conjured a pen, slowly underlining some of them, "and those four are the ones I want you to strike a conversation with."

Varya gave him a baffled look, "You want me to gather information for you? What on Earth makes you think I would do as you say?"

Tom's sinister smile made her toes curl in her black shoes, and she watched his gaze flicker with something akin to crudeness, "You will find I can be very...persuasive."

"Is that a threat, Riddle?"

"Perhaps it is," he mirrored back her words from the party, and Avery snickered at the glare that the girl threw him. "You will be a new face in the crowd, and that will attract people to you. The name I underlined are some families we believe have affiliated themselves with Grindelwald, and with your family history, it is most likely that they will want to talk to you."

"Why not just have Rosier do it? Is he not your usual schmoozer?" Varya asked, glancing back at the list.

"His family is trying to distance themselves from Grindelwald as much as possible, and so he cannot be seen conversing with suspected allies. Of course, invites are sent out of courtesy, but they do not mingle." Avery explained, his voice carrying a note of gravity.

Varya frowned, still unsure about the plan, "And why do you want to know if they are loyal to him?" She was met with silence, and that made her scoff, "You want me to put myself out on the line, and you will not even tell me why?"

"We do not trust you, Petrov, make no mistake, and if it were not for the unusual predicament we have found ourselves in, you would not even be aware of this," Tom raised his voice, displeased by the lack of subordination. He looked at the girl, and his blood boiled as he watched her remain as unmoved as ever.

Varya glared right back, but a part of her told her to accept the task, get on his right side, and slither her way into his group. She looked at the list, and dread settled in her stomach. Was it worth it? If she engaged with those people, she would expose herself to Grindelwald, and something told her that the dark wizard would not be pleased to hear of her survival. However, if she wanted to rejoin the wizarding world eventually, then announcing her existence at a glamorous gala was the least chaotic thing to do.

That was to be one of her biggest mistakes.

"Very well," she said eventually, and Tom gave her a pleased nod. Then, he gestured to Avery.

"Avery will keep out a look for you during the event, your presence might unsettle some fanatics, and I do not underestimate their capabilities. Some might target you, but rest assured that we will ensure your safety."

The warmth that enveloped her made her want to grab her knife from Avery's pockets and put it against her own throat. These were the people that had poisoned her, that had tried to enter her mind just to ensure that they could assign her a small task, and yet here she was, her heart fluttering at the notion of having someone watch out for her life.

However, it made her feel like there was a soul out there that valued her existence, that would care if something were to happen to her, and that was something she was not familiar with. And even if it was the imposing devil that was Tom Riddle, her heart still thumped at the feeling.

"I want something in return," she said, her eyes carrying some unspoken conflict.

It was true, she did want their help with a task of her own, but Varya did not know how to trust them. Besides that, she also knew Tom would suspect her if she suddenly obeyed without asking for a favor in return. After all, it was what he would do.

At the boy's raised eyebrow, Varya turned to Avery and continued, "You once told me that Maxwell could understand what had happened in the woods that night, and that he might know where to look for such things. My demand is that he looks into it. I want answers, and you will get them for me."

Tom Riddle watched her with respect, enjoying how she delegated Nott and Avery with a task. However, a part of him was also irritated by her authority over his own followers, and he wanted to cast a curse at her. He held back and only nodded to Nicholas, granting the girl's wish.

"Very well," Avery said, raising from his seat at once, then bowing his head to Tom. "I will head to the Common Room."

"Nicholas."

He turned to her, eyebrow hoisted and sneer on his face, "Yes, ma'am?"

"What did you do to Elladora?" asked Varya, curiosity nibbling at her mind.

The boy snickered darkly, then pulled something out of his pocket, dangling it in the air. It was a lovely earring, the diamond sparkling in the room's dim light, and yet Varya let out a gasp when she saw the gruesome reality. It was still attached to the lower part of an earlobe, bloodied and grotesque.

For some obscure reason, Varya felt a sickening pleasure settle in her stomach, some thirst for vengeance being quenched at the sight of such torture, and darkness crept around the edges of her soul, small claws digging into it. She bit back the sinister smile that threatened to spill on her features, shaking her head.

Tom Riddle did not miss it, nevertheless.

"Nothing magic cannot fix," sighed Avery, "but surely enough for her to keep her mouth shut."

Varya sighed, then narrowed her eyes, "If you ever poison me again, I will make sure my dagger follows you to your tomb."

Avery laughed, throwing his head back in wicked delight, then gave a mocking bow, "Of course, little vixen, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned — try as you might, but stronger men and more vicious gals have attempted to get to me. Yet here I stand."

"You stand there so mighty, but remember that it only takes one bad apple to ruin a good basket, and you, Avery, have not had to deal with witchcraft like mine," Varya hissed, and, as an illustration, she conjured a flickering flame that glowed of blackening light in her hand, the kind of fire no water could extinguish, and when cast upon flesh, did not burn, but rather chewed at flesh like maggots.

"Magic like yours?" the boy singsonged mockingly, but his eyes stayed on the flame, not letting it out of sight, "Perhaps, but then again, I have crushed it once, have I not?"

With that, he left the small salon, and his absence made the reticence between the two souls left in the Room of Requirement be more potent than ever. Varya threw a tentative glance at Riddle, and she saw him watching her with sly eyes, admiring the flame she still held with menacing eyes.

It was then that she gathered the courage to ask what had been on her mind for so long, "The petrified student, that was your doing?"

Tom stiffened, and his gaze fired as he scrutinized her. He pursed his lips in thought, then shook his head. "No."

It was a lie, they both knew it, but neither commented on it, enjoying the quietness that surrounded them. Varya thought back to how he had found her in the Forbidden Forest, bloodied and maddened, and how his arms had been a source of comfort for her. In an idealistic world, Tom Riddle could have been someone she admired greatly. Hell, even now, with his macabre behavior and twisted smiles, the boy still demanded some sort of respect from her. He was efficacious, intelligent, and Varya did not mind the darkness that always trailed behind him.

She felt conflicted, unsure of what to make of him. Why was she so fascinated? Why could she not step away from him? Even if Dumbledore told her to suddenly abandon her task, Varya thought she could not let Tom Riddle go.

Varya wanted to make him feel, to have him open up slowly and step away from what he was about to become, and so her next question surprised them both.

"Are you going back to your family over Christmas?"

Of course, the girl knew he was an orphan, but she wanted him to admit it to her, to share this part of his life that he perhaps tried to hide from the rest of the world. Tom twisted a black ring on his finger, and bit the inside of his cheek, unsure of what to say, then, he looked up at her.

"My parents are dead," he admitted, "I will be going back to Wool's orphanage before we meet at the Rosier manor."

Varya nodded, feigning surprise at his words. She knew of his predicament, but she could not raise suspicion. "I do not know where I am going yet; I do not have a place to return to."

It was Riddle's turn to be agitated, almost as if he had not considered that she was also an orphan, and he nodded as if he was acknowledging her story. They did not say anything else; they just sat in the glow of the fireplace's flame, gazes locked in the slightest feeling of understanding. And as the minutes went by, they both felt themselves submerge in acquaintanceship.


	22. chapter twenty

Something had shifted between Varya and the group, that much was undeniable. If before, they would only chat with her when she reached out or when they needed something from her, now, they were everywhere. It was almost as if she had acquired an assortment of seven deadly shadows that followed her around the castle, always a few steps behind her.

She did not know if this was Tom's way of keeping an eye out on her, or if it was merely that they were all in the same House, but other people had begun to take notice as well. Now, there were whispers of a new Slytherin pure-blood joining Tom Riddle's ranks, and Varya did not know if she savored that label. After all, she had had enough of following cult leaders.

"So, as I said, if you could put in a good word for me to Malfoy—" Varya just stared at the fourth-year Gryffindor in front of her, not even knowing how to react, so when Della Beauchamp took over, she was incredibly appreciative for having the prefect Ravenclaw at her side.

"Piss off, Grunberg, that platinum-haired freak is mine, and my best friend will not help you put your nasty little paws on him," her voice was so melodious that Varya snorted. Nevertheless, she grinned when Della put a shielding arm around her shoulders, dragging her away from the startled Gryffindor.

Varya laughed as they walked away, "Getting protective over Malfoy, already?"

She was aware of Della's new fixation, and she did not know what to make of it. The Slytherin boy, of course, grimaced whenever the Ravenclaw would approach him, and Varya thought that it was precisely that reaction that Beauchamp was obsessing over. She was a pretty girl, and a pretty girl that was not a Slytherin was usually a very popular girl. That was her case as well, and perhaps, some part of Della did not like not being able to have the Malfoy heir in her hands. Although Varya doubted it would last, as the Ravenclaw girl had a new fixation each week, she was still worried about her.

"Here is my vision— when you get yourself a charming Slytherin boy to take you to Slughorn's party, Lestrange or Riddle, whichever one gives you bigger puppy eyes, I want my own!" she emphasized, earning a glare from Varya.

"Why would Riddle be my date?" she bit back, not fancying the way it made blood rise to her cheeks. "I do not fancy him."

"Right," Della said sarcastically, "but look, you did not deny Lestrange!"

Varya's stomach tickled from butterflies once again, "Can we not talk about that?"

"Has he asked you to accompany him to Slughorn's party?"

Varya shook her head, somewhat frustrated at the notion of not being asked. In some way, she had expected an invitation, although she knew it was only her egotistical heart looking for reassurance. They had not spoken to each other since her brief hospital visit, and she had begun wondering if his interest had only been part of Riddle's plan. However, she did not bring it up as she thought it would be insensitive, considering the recent news of a student being petrified.

Despite all warnings from other teachers, Slughorn had gone ahead with his Christmas plan, and Varya did not know what to make of it. There was nothing to celebrate as of now, and she was still dreading being in the same room with the Slytherins. She had managed to keep her distance from Elladora, who had been quite cynical about her sudden involvement with Tom's plans, only exchanging brief pleasantries in their shared room.

Her earlobe had somewhat healed, although now her ears were not proportional anymore, and if any Hogwarts student noticed, they never said anything to Elladora's face, too scared to upset the Slytherin girl.

Ivy had taken notice of this bizarre behavior, and had been pestering Varya with questions about their falling-out. Questions the girl did not know how to answer, so she settled on avoiding the Slytherin girl prefect and occupying her time with Della's company. Varya felt guilty, as Ivy had been one of the constants of her time at Hogwarts, but there was only so much she could lie about.

Surprisingly, it had been Nicholas Avery who always seemed to strike a conversation with her. However, most of it was about the upcoming vacation to the Rosier Manor and how they should coordinate to extract information from the guests successfully. Varya was still picking at her brain over it, trying to come up with a devious scheme that might help her unravel Grindelwald's plans without putting a target on her back.

"Well, the gathering is tonight, and if Lestrange does not make a move until six o'clock, I believe it is only fair that you ask Riddle," said Della as they turned another corner to the Main Entrance. The girl had vowed that she would help Varya get ready, and the Slavic girl marveled at her lack of fear of being in a room full of heinous pure-bloods.

"I have no interest in that, Della," answered Varya, although she could not ignore the way her mind strayed to the sociopathic boy.

"Yes, that is why the whole Hogwarts body has been buzzing about your secret Hogsmeade trip— Oh! And how he carried you around the school to the infirmary after you fainted in the courtyard from your sickness, that was so chivalrous of him!" Della fawned, and Varya almost rolled her eyes, because she knew Tom had been the one that caused her illness in the first place, and dropping her off at the infirmary was the least he could have done. "Besides, it was him that talked Professor Herbert into letting you retake the Herbology exam; otherwise, you would have failed!"

Varya had been grateful for that, truthfully, as she was given a chance to take the exam she had missed due to her own imbecility. However, the corrupt outweighed the good, and in the grand scheme of things, Riddle was no benefactor of hers. As a matter of fact, she was raging with how he had managed to come across as a benevolent knight, the boy who had rescued the puny foreign witch from dying in the snowstorm, and had even gotten her an excuse to take a test she had not attended.

Tom Riddle, the master puppeteer, had once again managed to manipulate a whole school, hiding his actual nefarious dealings between porcelain simpers and honey-coated words, and it made the girl want to gauge her eyes out so that she could not see everyone treat him as a virtuous paladin.

"Is it not a bit medieval to think that a girl owes herself to a man just because he saved her?" asked Varya bitterly, but that only earned a laugh from her friend.

"It is common courtesy! Beside, Riddle is one of the gentlemen of Hogwarts. He has never even called me a mudblood."

"Your standards are terribly low if that is what your base your infatuation on, and anyhow, it is not like Riddle is a pure-blood himself," Varya retorted, slightly pestered at the groundless praises Tom was receiving from her friend.

Della gasped, then grabbed the other girl's arm, "Varya! He is an orphan; we do not know what he is!"

"Tom Riddle sounds muggle to me," Varya jeered, knowing very well that the possibility of Tom being a pure-blood was close to none.

"My apologies, but I must agree with your friend, Petrov. It is quite insensitive to say such things."

Varya's blood iced over, and she spun around to meet Tom Riddle's midnight cerulean eyes. They were filled with wrath, so much so that they entranced her, and she did not even notice the murderous glare that Abraxas Malfoy was sending her way. She heard Della's screech, and vaguely understood her rushed apologies to the two boys, but did not realize the girl ran away from the scene until Riddle broke their gaze-lock to signal Malfoy to leave. The platinum-haired Slytherin nodded, and passed Varya, bumping her shoulder with his in the process.

Then, Tom turned to look at her, face scrunched in fury, and he approached her with such speed that the girl did not even realize she was backing away from his figure until her back hit a nearby wall. She swallowed harshly, ignoring the mahogany scent that radiated from the boy's body, and avoided his fiendish orbs.

"Perhaps I should ask Selwyn to slip you some Belladonna again, because I appreciated your existence better when you were too weak to wipe the drool off of your chin, Petrov," he said grimly, suddenly pressing his wand against her throat.

Varya raised her chin, trying to put more space between her neck and his weapon, but halted when she realized their proximity. "You do not scare me, Riddle."

"For lack of better judgment, then. It would be best if you were absolutely horrified of the things I can do— of the things I have done," he murmured, voice slurring with a sinister speech as he raised her chin with his wand. "I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to."

"You have already stung me once, and I will be dammed if I let it happen again," the girl answered, suddenly pushing against his chest to create more distance between their bodies, but Tom only grabbed both of her hands with his, holding them forcefully.

"That is not really up to you, you see. You have no idea what my plans are, and as long as you are blessed with this ignorance, your brittle mind is guarded, but if I as much as —" he leaned closer, lips trailing her ear, voice in a salty rasp"— let one secret slip, it will shatter before your eyes. I did it once; I can do it again."

Varya inhaled heavily, her throat contracting in an unpleasant way at his touch, and she wanted to get away from it, to put so much distance between the two of them that he could never reach her again.

She was a liar, a miserable excuse of braveness, and she did not want to admit the way her resolve succumbed before Tom Riddle. Varya had seen beheadings, she had seen cadavers so foul that not even the beasts of the woods wanted to sink their teeth in their flesh, and she had felt the deathly touch of some of the most demonic creatures that roamed the Earth.

And yet, none of it had broken her the way he had. She had fallen for his treachery, had underestimated just how wide his reach was, and had put her faith in corrupt people. In the end, Tom Riddle had annihilated something that had stood firm against the most abominable acts of humankind. And what kind of abnormality did that make him?

"The fact that you take pride in doing such is repugnant, and let me tell you this— you played dirty, you took my witchcraft away from me, and you hammered down your nails on my mind, but now I know your tactics, Riddle," she said, dragging her face away from his. "But you do not know mine."

Tom let out a low sneer, suddenly pushing himself away from her, and he tilted his head in a disdainful gaze, "You have been threatening me for months, and yet have achieved nothing. You overvalued yourself, or maybe you have never met your match until me, but there is nothing you can do to undermine my command."

"And yet you need my help for your nefarious plans, am I correct?"

"Do not get arrogant, Petrov," spat Riddle, "I could hex out your eyes if I desired to."

"Keep threatening me and see what happens," she scoffed, although part of her did not quite mean it.

"Nothing would delight me more than to see you try to outpower me, Varya," he smirked, his voice so condescending it made her blood boil.

Then, he scurried his eyes along the deserted hallway, and his face fell in its usual apathy, no trace of the machiavellianism that coursed his bloodstream, his lack of morality and prudence.

"Has anyone told you that you are absolutely sick?" Varya lamented, gripping at her wrists in pain, as the boy had held them too firmly.

Tom gave her a smirk, then gestured for her to follow him, "The brightest minds are always considered mad because their depth goes far beyond human consciousness. After all, they thought Diogenes to be unstable because of his repulsion against society."

Varya scoffed, "Of course, the philosopher you would be fascinated with is the one who pillared cynicism." Even so, she found herself trailing behind him, and for a second, she wondered if she was not just as deranged as him.

Tom shook his head, "I am not fascinated with his teachings, he thought power to be a weakness, but I acknowledge his lucidness. He saw humans for what they were, opportunistic beings who only hid behind communal interest."

"I am surprised you even bothered educating yourself on muggle beliefs," Varya admitted as they walked towards the Dungeons.

"Petrov, manipulating the mind requires an understanding of behavior and psychology, it is only natural that I dabble with Greek philosophy," he resolved, and Varya could only agree in awe, surprised that they shared the same belief on such a matter.

They entered the Slytherin Common Room, the emerald hue making Varya feel quite somnolent, but as she glanced at the clock, she noticed it was barely past six o'clock. Soon, she would have to attend Slughorn's party, and the girl grimaced at the idea, as Riddle had managed to scare Della away. Now, she would have to get ready by herself.

"I expect to see you downstairs in an hour." She turned towards the boy, raising en eyebrow in confusion, but he only gave her a hardened stare. "Did your friend not say that if Icarus fails to assist you by six, I were to be your escort? I find it only fitting, two powerful minds arriving together. And besides, there is much to discuss about the upcoming break."

He turned around and left, not leaving her any time to fight against it, but truth be told, Varya did not know if she would have. A small smile made its way to her lips as she watched his brooding figure climb the stairs to his room, shutting the door behind him.

Was she completely losing her mind? The boy had just had her up against a wall, threatening to dissemble her mind, again, and yet she could not deny the fluttering feeling in her stomach, a sensation she could not quite understand. There was something about Tom Riddle's presence that moved her despite all, and she thought that it was precisely the notion that it was forbidden that made her want to always be around him.

It was as if a string had been tied between the two of them, and whenever the distance grew large, Varya would feel an odd tug at her heart that would have her follow his general direction. And no scissor could ever completely cut this nihilistic bond.

She made her way up the stairs and into her room, shutting the door softly behind her, and smiled when she saw Elladora's empty bed. By the mess of dresses sprawled on Ivy's, she knew her other roommate was close by, probably in the bathroom, and that gave her enough time to put on her dress before either would return quickly.

Her dress was on the bed, and she had ordered it from one of Della's recommended tailors. It was made of emerald satin that fell to the floor in massive heaps, a train trailing behind her. The glistening golden buttons on the sleeved were carefully craved with the Slytherin emblem and another drawing that Varya could not quite figure out. She picked it up, analyzing the pins closely, and felt her breath leave her body. She would recognize it anywhere.

Her family's crest— a tradition that belonged to most Eastern families, something telling of the high society they belonged to. Varya had last seen it craved in the pillars of her house in the Romanian woods when she was young, and as she traced the outline of the Eurasian Lynx, she felt pride swoop at her heart.

One of the fiercest predators in the European mountains, the Lynx was a stealthy killer with scrupulous grace. Almost playing a devilish game of seduction with its pray, it always waited for the right moment before pouncing on it, tearing its flesh and enjoying its feast.

Furthermore, those were the exact traits of the fallen Petrov line, ancient bloodline of powerful sorcerers that had always answered the devil's sinful call to dark magic, and had prided themselves in their enigmatic killings and insincere game.

Her trembling hand reached her mouth, and she wondered who had instructed the tailor to add such a small, but essential detail to her attire. To her, her name was the most prized possession that she had, the only reminiscent of the brilliance her parents had grown up in, and the only connection she had to them.

After the incident in the forest, Varya had promised herself to no longer cry, but she could not help the grief-filled tears that pooled in her onyx eyes as she cradled the dress to her chest, small sniffles escaping her lips. Her parents, damned wizards that had only let her inherit shame, and yet they were so important to her, and she cherished them as a child would.

Her mother was the one she remembered most, although they had both passed away when she was around three years old, with her stern features and pitched voice. She would always scold Varya for her lack of manners, but her piercing eyes never carried any malice toward her daughter, only compassion. After all, even the darkest wizards were capable of love. She had the same darkened eyes and pale skin, the beauty and harshness of a Slavic woman that was so enrapturing.

Varya's father was more of a blur, but she remembered his raven hair and impressive height. He was a robust man, and above all, he was loyal to his cause. It had been him that encouraged her mother to return to the war, eventually dooming them. The girl did not remember his voice.

She hurried to put on her dress, enjoying its velvety touch against her heated skin, and she trailed her hands down the patterned lace that stood on the sides of her corset. Her long sleeves fell in triangular shapes, one edge longer than the other, and her neckline stopped right where it should. She pulled her night-infused hair in a low braid, adding small ornaments that resembled drops of gold on its length, then pulled at two strands to let them frame her delicate face.

Giving one last look at the mirror, Varya turned around towards the door, feeling more influential than ever. With her family emblem on her sleeves, she felt, perhaps for the first time, her real legacy flow through her veins. She was a Petrov witch, and she cowered before nobody. She left the room, then made her way back to the Common Room.

As always, the Slytherin boys lined the entrance, each of them in a dashing suit and tie— except, of course, for Maxwell Nott, who had once again fashioned a silky scarf instead. They turned to look at her figure, and Varya blushed underneath their scrutinizing gaze.

Tom Riddle stood out from the group, making his way toward her with deliberate steps, and then he halted right at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her with thoughtful eyes. His suit was a bit large on him, and Varya could only assume he had borrowed it from one of the other boys, probably not being able to afford his own. Her heart twisted at that, and for once, she wished that the boy would have had a different fate.

"Your presence is as graceful," he complimented her with a dull face, and the girl bit back a scoff at the delivery. Tom truly did not know how to flatter a girl. He extended his arm to her, and Varya wrapped delicate fingers around it. The boy glanced at the emblemed buttons that trailed her arms, then pressed a finger against the roaring face of the Lynx, and hummed appreciatively.

He looked at her again, a knowing expression in his eyes, and muttered words of praise. "There is nothing more ravishing on a woman than power."

That had been genuine, and Varya pursed her lips to stop a smile from taking over. She loathed herself for allowing his words to matter this much, and she did not want to allow herself to dwell on the feeling too much, afraid of what it might reveal.

Tom confused her. She hated his arrogance and found his constant manipulation undesirable. He had toyed with her as if she was nothing, and yet his delusive bewitchery had fooled her into excusing it. Varya found it peculiar how, despite everything, all she could think of when she remembered being poisoned was his arms carrying her away from the carcass of the Therestral.

"I quite disagree, I believe that it is the complete euphoria that dawns on one's face when they elude the consequences of their recklessness," came the voice of Icarus Lestrange as he approached the two partners, and Varya felt remorse eat at her insides. Icarus grabbed her other hand, placing a kiss on her knuckles, then gave her a smirk. "I see you have found yourself quite a partner, Varya."

The girl looked at him, unsure of what to say, "Due to lack of interest from others."

Icarus frowned, almost as if the thought of having to ask her had not struck him until this moment, then he gave a sheepish smile.

"Of course, my apologies, I have been quite busy. Nevertheless, we will enjoy ourselves at Rosier's festivities, I am sure," He shot Tom a look, but the boy seemed to care less about the notion. "Save me a dance, however. I would like to test your skills before the event. Rosier said something about you practicing with skeletons, quite the statement."

Then, Icarus sent her a wink and made his way back to the group. Ivy Trouche came down the stairs, holding her golden dress' edges in her hands as she tried not to step on it, "Thank you for waiting."

She looked over at Varya, then at her arm resting on Tom's elbow, and frowned. She sent the girl a questioning stare that Varya tried to evade but knew she could not run from forever. The group started making its way down the hall, earning a few appreciative glances from the students that were heading back to their Common Rooms. There was the occasional judgmental look shot by Gryffindors, who could not believe that some would still have the heart to celebrate after the recent incidents.

However, Arthur had been a muggle-born wizard, and to the group of pure-bloods, it mattered less than what they would serve for breakfast the next day.

Slughorn's office was ornated with shimmering globes, charmed snow, and a towering Christmas tree. A faint carol played in the room, heavenly voices bouncing off of the walls, and the infamous tapestries had been modified to showcase festive exhibitions. A charmed snow-man was making its way around the room, a large tray of delicacies on its wooden arm, and Varya's eyes twinkled with delight at the scene.

The night had barely begun.


	23. chapter twenty-one

If there was a generic statement that could apply to Slughorn, it was that he desired to surround himself with polished, bright minds— to create the illusion of aristocracy and intellect around him. Much like a dragon would, the Professor would accumulate everything golden that sat behind a desk in his classes, and bring it to his cave to parade it around.

Even so, Varya was surprised at the alumni that he had convinced to attend his Christmas party. Some of them had reached extraordinary ranks in the Ministry or had become renowned healers at St. Mungo's Hospital, but the character that completely stole the show was Newton Scamander.

He stood amongst the students, every pair of eyes on him, and he awkwardly avoided their gazes, shifting from one leg to another beside Slughorn. His henna colored hair was as rumpled as always, and he was the same man Varya had seen in every wizarding newspaper over the past few months. He had an oddly large vest, fitted over a white dress shirt, and his yellow tie had him stand as the lonesome Hufflepuff in the room. He was charming in his own peculiar way.

In his presence, the emblem-craved buttons that rested on Varya's sleeves felt more onerous, and she felt her arms hide behind her back as the powerful wizard circled the room, head slowly bowing at the students he passed.

Eventually, Slughorn ended up in front of Varya, Tom, and Malfoy, face already reddened by the select wine that was being served. "Ah! Some of my finest students, Scamander, you ought to meet them! This is Abraxas Malfoy; I believe you have heard the name. And, of course, Tom Riddle! He is Hogwarts' star, and many believe him to be a safe-guess for our next Minister of Magic."

"You flatter me, Professor," said Tom gallantly, then extended his hand to Newt Scamander, who stared at him before his eyes drifted to his hand, clasping it and shaking it briefly. "A pleasure to meet you, sir. Your heroism against Grindelwald is praised by many. We all hope that his dark reign will cease soon and that greater things are to come."

Varya did not miss the premonition in his timbre, the subtle way his voice denoted arrogance, and she wanted to roll her eyes at his appalling behavior. However, her gaze was trained on Scamander, and she watched with trepidation as Slughorn gestured to her.

"And this is Varya—" his words died on his lips, ultimately realizing the gravity of his mistake. Slughorn's hand flew to the back of his head, slightly scratching it as he scanned the room for an escape.

Varya looked Newt in the eye, resentment growing stronger with each second, then extended her hand delicately, gaze glistening with a lynx's pride, "Petrov, Varya Petrov."

Recognition flickered across the wizard's face as he took her hand and shook it awkwardly, then cleared his throat to relieve the tension. "As in Cornelius and Lyudmila Petrov?" he asked, and the judgment in his voice was telling.

"Exactly that, I am afraid," Varya answered with a smile, but her voice was as monotonous as possible. She did not know what she should feel towards the man, a conflict between gratitude and loathing, but right now, Varya was only empty. She stared at the man that had fought against her parents, who had, in some way, led to their demise and had cursed her with a life of misfortune. At that moment, Newton Scamander was no savior of the wizarding world, and she could not bring herself to be thankful for his actions.

"Fascinating," he mused, almost to himself, as if the rest of them were not even present. "Dumbledore did tell me that a Petrov witch was attending Hogwarts yet again, but I did not pay much mind to it at the time. You resemble your mother."

"Do I?" Varya said stiffly. "I would not know."

Of course, she suspected Newt would have attended Hogwarts at the same time as her parents, and would therefore know much more about them than her. And yet, his alliance had not shown any mercy when they were captured.

The silence that followed was syrupy, and Varya heard Abraxas Malfoy draw in an audible breath beside her, before taking a step forward. "Professor, I believe Mister Scamander would enjoy your magical tapestry, have you seen it?"

With that, the two older wizards made their way to the other end of the room, and for the first time since her arrival, Varya felt grateful for Malfoy's existence. Over the past few weeks, she had learned that while Malfoy was much more elusive than the rest of Tom's followers, he was also his most trusted companion.

The boy had natural defiance to him, something she had realized from the first day they had met, and commanded respect wherever he went. After all, the mere Malfoy name was enough to settle dread in the bravest hearts, a family so ancient and powerful that few dared defy them. Malfoy had a leading capability, and would often take over the reins when Tom would busy himself with other affairs.

On multiple occasions, it had been Abraxas that would deliver Varya the messages Tom would send her about their vacation plans, and it was also him who had given her somewhat of a background run on the families that would be attending.

She watched their backs retreat gracefully, then turned towards Tom, whose eyes were filled with intrigue. As always, he was a remarkable sight to look at, lips slightly parted and eyes mystified as he thought deeply.

"Sometimes, I forget you are the poster child for Grindelwald's crimes."

Varya scoffed at him, grabbing a wine glass from a passing tray and lifting it to her lips, "Thank you, Riddle, such lovely words you always mutter."

Tom hummed, then turned to watch the people in the room with a shrewd gaze. Varya could tell by the way that he was bitting his inner cheek that he was scheming, so Janus-faced it was almost repulsive. She could not understand how people could not see through his facade, but then again, had she not fallen for it as well in some way? Or, perhaps, it was precisely the fact that she could see his true form that captivated her, so entranced by the depravity between the Adonic face and luscious curls. He was a paradoxical being, the kind of inscrutability you would only read about in books, and it made him a complicated amalgam of runes that Varya wanted to translate.

"You should pester Scamander for information on Grindelwald," he said, suddenly, looking at her with determination alight in his azure eyes. Varya gave him an incredulous look, and so he scoffed, "He knows what is going on on the Ministry's side; he can give us a different perspective."

"What makes you think he will want to talk to me?" asked Varya, unsure of his suggestion. Scamander had not seemed pleased with her presence, although he had not made it obvious, she could tell from his reluctance to talk to her directly.

"Curiosity" was the answer he received. "He will also be suspicious of your loyalty, and he will try to talk you into aligning yourself with them."

"I am not interested in joining any side, I prefer my brooding grayness," she admitted, not enjoying the idea of having to promise her loyalty in exchange for information. To her, the less involved she was, the better. She already had one sociopath to deal with.

"He does not know that," Tom said, suddenly stepping away from her. Then, he turned halfway to look at her over his shoulder. "Keep it that way."

Varya watched him walk away, and up to a woman she recognized from the Daily Prophet as Amelia Skeeter, and she felt her blood boil at the sight. She was in her twenties, perhaps, and her cheeks reddened at the attention of a young, handsome boy such as Riddle. Her charmed pen flew around her eagerly, and then it started scribbling down every enchanting word that passed Tom's lips.

Varya had not expected him to be much of a date, to take her dancing or engage in small talk over a glass of refined champagne, but he had barely spent a few minutes in her presence before turning away. Not only that, but he was also trying to involve her in something she was not sure she wanted to be part of.

But what could the girl even do? She had to gain his trust somehow; she had to make herself part of his circle of followers if she wanted ever to have a grasp on his mind. Right now, he was as intangible as ever, a wall of stone, and Varya doubted he cared for anything except his conquest.

Was she just like the rest? Had she fallen for his manipulation and charm? She should have been angry at him, should have raised Hell because of what he had done, and yet she could not bring herself to harm the boy. She had threatened Elladora, Avery, and had even hexed Malfoy the first time she had the occasion, and yet Tom was beyond her reach.

To take down a king, you first have to play the game of chess.

Because of that reason, she found herself making her way to the end of the room, where Malfoy was still talking about the odious tapestry on the wall, gesturing half-heartedly to the creatures he did not quite know.

"And this dragon, uh, the Norwegian Ridgeback—" he said, scratching his chin as he tried to describe the mighty monster.

"Actually," intervened Varya, slowly advancing toward, "it is a Romanian Longhorn, you can tell by its horns, a number of two, and the slyhterian color of his scales. Quite impressive beasts, I had the opportunity to train with them in the Carpathian mountains."

Newt Scamander turned towards her, eyebrow raised at her knowledge, then back at the tapestry, and nodded. "Yes, I quite agree with Miss Petrov."

"Ah, I see—" said Malfoy, a pitiful pretense of intrigue on his face. "Well, then, I will leave you to it. A pleasure, sir."

Abraxas headed off, but not before giving Varya a knowing look, and walked towards another party attendee to make idle chatter. The girl turned, her emerald dress dragging at the ground, and faced the wizard with the hair of flames.

"You said you trained with them?" he suddenly asked, eyebrows frowned as he continued to look at the image. "I never quite had the pleasure, the Carpathian mountains have not been on my list of recent travels, despite the fact that I have been told they hold many wonderful beings."

"Dark beings," she corrected, "Not your average fantastic beasts, they are demons more than magical creatures."

"Your knowledge of them is quite broad, are you interested in Magizoology?" he asked her, finally meeting her darkened eyes.

Varya was taken aback by his statement. She had never considered her interests, although perhaps it was time for her to do so. With dread, the girl realized she had no idea what she wanted to do after graduation.

"No, sir, just merely fascinated with them," she concluded, voice tentative. "A shame you have not visited Wallachia; you would surely enjoy your discoveries. Perhaps, one day, after Grindelwald is defeated..."

She watched his body stiffen, probably not expecting her to name drop the dark wizard, but Varya always enjoyed surprising people, and Scamander was no exception. Despite his incredible achievements, he carried himself with unprecedented modesty, and amongst the sea of students, it was only his celebrated name that made him stand out. Varya had not met many powerful sorcerers, definitely not the good ones, but she doubted they were all as reserved as Newton Scamander.

"Yes, I suppose," he mumbled, pulling at the large vest that fit him strangely, "what do you make of...all of this?"

There it was, the curiosity that Tom had anticipated, "Of Grindelwald?" she asked, sham surprise in her voice. Then, she shrugged nonchalantly. "I cannot help the wrath I hold in my heart for him. After all, were it not for his fanatic views, my parents would still be alive."

She did not know whom she was speaking of.

"I see," answered Newt, eyes still trained on the dragon. It seemed that the man had more of a connection with creatures than he did with humans. "It is only natural, I assume. I have lost many because of him, as well."

Varya watched his face contort into something darker, stricken by grief, and despite herself, her heart went out to the wizard. At least, Varya had not known her parents, and so despite her loss, she did not have to deal with the painful memories. However, she had heard of Leta Lestrange's death, the girl who had befriended Newton Scamander ever since his early days at Hogwarts.

"He has been more reserved recently," she began, although she had no idea what she was talking about. She had distanced herself from anything related to the wizard, as it made her sick to the stomach. "Do you reckon he is plotting?"

Newton looked at her, hesitant, and he opened his mouth to say something, then immediately shut it. He fumbled with his steps, then relaxed and gave her a small smile, "We can only believe so. I am to meet Dumbledore tonight to discuss such plans, but I cannot say more. I advise you not to get involved with any of Grindelwald's plans, and I assume that is why Albus has brought you here, under his watch."

"Why?" frowned Varya.

"I believe that Albus has the intention of keeping you safe, although I must admit I am not terribly aware of his plans, as I have been quite preoccupied lately," he told her, suddenly shifting away as if he was about to leave the room.

"Why would Dumbledore keep me safe?" she asked again, doubtful.

The man regarded her, something flickering in his eyes, and she could not make out what he was thinking. "Because if our assumptions are correct, Gellert Grindelwald might just be looking for you."

***

It took Varya four glasses of champagne to drown out her nerves, mind still filled with Newton Scamander's words. She had avoided everyone during the rest of the night, evading Tom's perplexed looks at her consumerism, and she had tried her best to soothe her hammering heart, numb herself out. The tsunami of sensations that pounded against her thoracic cavity sent ripples of pain and anxiety through her bloodstream, adrenaline being secreted at an unusually fast rate, and no matter how many glasses she finished, her mind was still somewhat lucid.

He had terrified her in a way the girl did not even know was possible, and whatever game Scamander was playing at, he had won. Every breath she took was shakier than the last one, every step was misplaced, and she felt watched as she pushed her way amongst the crowd of students. Varya's legs tangled with her dress, and she almost fell over, barely managing to catch herself.

"Varya?"

The girl turned to face her roommate, Ivy Trouche, who was giving her a worried look as she watched Varya lean over a chair, wobbling on her feet. Ivy reached out, grabbing her tipsy friend by her waist, and started making her way out of the room.

"What happened?" she asked, distress lacing her honey voice. She smelled of intense perfume and the slightest hint of a danced night.

Varya did not say anything. Instead, she stared at Icarus Lestrange's approaching figure, who seemed to be just as concerned with her behavior. He followed the two of them outside of Slughorn's office, then watched as Ivy rested her roommate against the castle's chilly wall.

The moment she hit the ground, Varya cradled her knees, resting her cloudy head on them, and tried her best to bite back the weepings that started to rock her abdomen. She was a frightened sixteen-year-old girl, one that had been dealt a terrible hand of cards by the universe, and as much as she wanted to pretend to be just as mighty and callous as Tom Riddle, Varya knew she was more spineless.

She felt Icarus kneel beside her, taking her ice-cold hand in his ardent one, and gently massaging it with his thumb, trying to quiet her down. On her other side, Ivy sat down next to her, leaning her head on her friend's shoulder in a gesture of understanding.

To a passing figure, they might have looked like a group of ordinary, intoxicated teenagers, who had had a bit too much to drink at a festive party and were now dirtying their expensive gowns and suits on the grimy floors. And that was all they should have been. However, the universe had twisted their fate so eccentrically that they had had no childhood. They would never experience the innocence of their only worry being how to treat a nasty hungover.

Varya struggled at that moment, torn between letting every emotion she had lay out on the table and keeping Newton's words a secret. She could not come out clean to Ivy, she had been hiding too much from the girl, and it would be dangerous to reveal such information. Icarus might understand her better, but a part of her was always hesitant around him, unsure of his sincerity.

She hated being weak, and ever since her arrival at Hogwarts, that was all she had been. A mess of emotions caused by other people, because to someone that had never experienced the bitter taste of betrayal, trust came easy. But not anymore.

Fortunately, Della Beauchamp stepped out and saw the three Slytherins sprawled on the floor. With a small gasp, she hurried over, grabbing Varya's other hand and holding it to her face.

"You poor thing, cold as the night, is everything all right?" she asked, then almost immediately answered herself. "This is because you are worried about having to go home, is it not?"

Varya looked up, eyes rimmed with red, and gave the girl a soft smile. Her heart was unsullied, her nature was benevolent, and Varya wanted to crush her in a tight embrace for saving her once again. She nodded reluctantly, her insides twinging at the lie, then cleared her throat.

"Yes, I—" her voice was hoarse, and she felt her words fall out in a slurred speech, mind still intoxicated from the excessive champagne.

"Varya, why did you not tell me?" asked Ivy, a sympathetic look on her face that troubled Varya's pride. "I would have invited you to stay with me."

"Trouche, do not be foolish, your parents would never let you bring her in, you know how they feel about Grindelwald," said Icarus, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. "And as much as I want to help, Petrov, it would be inappropriate to have you over."

Varya nodded, biting her lip at his words. It was not her biggest worry at the moment, but she had not realized her situation until now. The students were supposed to leave in two days, and while Varya knew that she would be heading to France on Christmas Eve, she was unsure of what she should do.

"Nonsense, she can come over and stay with me in London," said Della, dragging Varya up off of the floor, "my muggle parents have no clue who Grindelwald is, and your name is insignificant to them. The only thing they will judge is your sorrowful eyes, so none of that anymore, yes?"

She cupped Varya's face, squishing against her cheeks, then gave her a soft smile that dulled the ache in Varya's heart.

"Thank you," she breathed out, words muffled by Della's hands.

"Of course! What are friends for, Petrov?"

Varya looked around her, analyzing the three pairs of eyes that looked at her with concern and warmth, who wanted her to be strong above all, and for the first time, she felt that if she disappeared tomorrow, someone might care.

And for those who had stood against her, had taken advantage of her nativity only to weaponize her powers, there was sweet vengeance coming.


	24. chapter twenty-two

Hogwarts had been Varya's only home for months, and without even realizing, she had grown overly attached to it, to the point where leaving the castle made her feel suffocated. She stood beside the Main Entrance, her humble suitcase by her side, and she looked over the imposing towers that stood against the bright sky.

The snow had covered the ancient school, glistening in the sun and reflecting its pure rays. The engulfing feeling in her heart grew exponentially as she watched Tom Riddle gaze down from an open window on the fifth floor. His eyes regarded over the multitude of students as they bumped into each other with enthusiasm, gleeful at seeing their families over the holidays.

She wondered what he felt at that moment, his situation so similar to hers, and she wanted him to talk to her about it, to be honest about his longing. Was he disheartened during Christmas, when he walked the streets of his town and saw the many families window shopping in the busy streets? When his friends bragged about the presents they had received, did he ever feel ashamed about not owning any new robes, not having the shiniest toys in the stores?

The wind blew at his curls, and his unmoving face carried the royalty of a nordic prince, so graceful and brilliant that it was breathtaking. Tom Riddle had been born to conquer, to rule over those of lesser minds, and Varya knew that with the right push, he could become the leader the wizarding world needed. The only problem, however, was stopping him from becoming a bloodthirsty tyrant.

Tom's eyes finally met hers, and he recognized the striking dark hair against the innocence of the snow. His mind flashed of red drops and sharp daggers, the pitiful cry of a soul that had been broken, and he found himself to be entranced by her presence. She had regained her youthful glow, the poison's effects finally subduing, and now, she resembled the strong witch that he had seen on the first day.

He remembered her in her sophisticated gown, wearing the traditional family crest on her sleeves, carrying herself with the dignity that he knew she possessed deep inside her, and a small breath left his lips. She had disappeared half-way throughout the night, and Tom had fought against the need to find her, unsure of his mind.

Before he realized what he was doing, he found himself slowly making his way down the moving stairs, cursing when they switched unexpectedly. There was an awareness in his body, and for some reason, he rushed to the Main Entrance, dragging his trunk behind him.

Tom stood in front of the main door, and watched her from the shadows as she carried her bags toward a carriage, suddenly stopping unexpectedly as she gazed at the Therestral. The creature neighed at her, stomping his feet in agitation, almost as if he could smell the sinful blood on her hands, and Varya found herself backing up in a hurry. Tom made his way to her, already seeing pieces of her mind break at the memory. Without saying a word, he threw his trunk in the carriage and hopped in one of the seats.

He extended his hand to Varya, and she watched him with wary eyes, gaze flicking between the boy and the creature.

"Nothing can defy you unless you let it," he told her, arm still extended. Reluctantly, she accepted his offer, then climbed the steps to sit opposite him.

"Wait for us!" came a rugged voice, and they both turned to see Maxwell Nott and Abraxas Malfoy, making their way towards them. The platinum-haired boy had already changed out of his uniform and was now dressed in a black suit, blending in with the line of trees of the Forbidden Forest.

Varya moved herself to one of the ends of the seat, making room for Abraxas Malfoy to sit next to her. The two of them had started getting along better, and he had even wished her well on her trip, saying that he expected to see her soon.

"Fancy seeing the two of you here," said Malfoy, eyes darting between the pair.

"It is almost like we are all heading in the same direction, you fool," breathed Maxwell, and Varya realized that was the most she had ever heard him speak. Almost as if hearing her thought, the boy turned towards her, giving her a nod in acknowledgment.

Tom scoffed, then took the scarf that Maxwell had wrapped around his trunk, and threw it over his neck, grimacing at the cold. He looked at Varya, then asked, "Where are you going to stay?"

"London," she answered softly. With the large scarf around his neck, Riddle looked more his age, less intimidating and menacing. "I am staying with Della."

"The mudblood?" he breathed angrily, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Yes," Varya said, back straight and not cowering against his judgment, "She is my friend."

"Blood traitor," Malfoy breathed, and before he could even process it, he felt the cold steel of Varya's knife against his side. The three boys widened their eyes at the girl, and Varya only smiled, feigning innocence.

She pressed it harder against his side, delighted at the painful wince he let out, and the small bead of sweat that rolled down the back of his neck despite the cold wind that hit their backs. Varya had sneaked another dagger in her pocket, and although it was not as sharp as the one Avery had stolen, it could easily slice the skin of those who held prejudice.

"Malfoy, Malfoy," she singsonged, leaning closer to his face, "Perhaps you have forgotten that my mind is no longer fogged with the essence of witch's berry, and you see, my temper has always been quite bad. Now, I would watch my words if I were you because last I remember, I still owe you a nightmarish time."

Abraxas turned towards her and nodded slowly. To her surprise, he seemed unfazed by her threat, almost as if he had foreseen it, and did not look at her with the fury she had expected. She stuffed her knife back in her pocket, giving him a false smile.

"Nott," she addressed the other pure-blood in the carriage, voice demanding as the Therestral dragged them along the paved road. Her mind wandered to the night she had summoned the ghost, when Tom had called her pathetic, and wondered if his mind was stuck on the same thing. However, the boy had his nose in a book, something she recognized from his library visits.

Secrets of the Darkest Art.

"Yes, ma'am?" asked Maxwell, voice fatigued as he looked at the girl he found irritating.

"Have you found anything on the matter I asked you to research?"

The boy rolled his eyes, then dug into his pockets before pulling out a ripped piece of a scroll and handing it over to the girl. Varya looked at it, confused, then read the odd address on it. It was in London, and it had the name of what seemed to be a store on Diagon Alley, but nothing more.

"What is this?" she asked, perplexed.

"An address," he answered blatantly, almost as if he was discussing with a child, "The man who owns the shop is known for contrabanding satanic writings. If the creature that approached you were of demonic origins, he would most likely be able to help you."

"What is his name?" she questioned him.

"Caracatus Burke," he said his name with the most solemn voice, almost as if he admired the man.

Varya stuffed the note in her robe, giving him a thankful nod, then trained her eyes on the approaching train station. The carriage stopped, and the boys started unloading it, then helped her get down from the steps. She had expected them to go on in their own way, but she watched Tom instruct Malfoy to carry her trunk, and gave the boy a grateful smile.

He only scowled at her, then turned around and walked ahead of the group.

"Varya!"

Petrov turned around to see Della Beauchamp make her way to her, eyes gleaming with delight at the sight of her friend. Varya returned it, and she could not help the excitement that had built up at the idea of spending her time at another person's house. It would be her first time celebrating Christmas.

"Oh, please do let me join your Slytherin scheming compartment," she laughed, watching as Maxwell Nott frowned at her presence. He scoffed, then turned to follow Riddle and Malfoy, dragging his trunk behind him.

"Why? So you can ogle at Malfoy?" smiled Varya.

"Of course! Have you seen his suit? Dashing he is," Della giggled.

"You are mad, you know how prejudiced he is, and yet you strive for his affection, it is almost as if you are a masochist," scoffed Varya, shaking her head at her friend as they entered the first wagon of the train. They started making their way down the corridor, squeezing through the passing students as they held each other's hands.

"I was not placed in Ravenclaw for my self-awareness, I can tell you that," her friend answered as they reached the door of the wagon that Varya knew Riddle would be in. "My eagle heart yearns for a challenge, always."

She opened the door, and was met with five pairs of supercilious eyes. She stepped inside, a shy Della following, obviously intimidated by the Slytherin presence, and Varya dared any of the boys to speak something against her appearance, hand tentatively above the pocket that held her knife.

"Sit with me, Della," she told her friend, then made Icarus scoot over to make space for the two of them. She felt everyone watch her, and she knew she was playing with fire by bringing the muggle-born witch in the Slytherin compartment, but Varya had to teach the boys to be more tolerant. And if shoving muggle-borns down their throats was the way to do it, then so be it.

Surprisingly, she saw Maxwell Nott nod at Della in acknowledgment, before engaging in small talk over a book that the girl had been holding in her hand. Apparently, the pure-blood enjoyed muggle literature, and he did not have many opportunities to discuss the topic with his friends.

That settled everyone's nerves, and soon enough, the boys went back to what they were doing. Icarus was toying with some chocolate frogs, charming them with his wand to pester a sleeping Rosier. Varya watched the frog jump on the boy's face, tickling his nose and making him scrunch it in annoyance, but he did not wake up. Nicholas Avery was flipping the pages of a book about combat, a jaded look stitched on his face, whereas Malfoy was simply staring at the two girls, an apathetic look on his face.

"Where is Riddle?" asked Varya suddenly, noticing the absence of the prime charlatan.

"Probably scolding Selwyn somewhere," scoffed Malfoy, rolling his eyes at the notion.

Varya frowned, unsure how to feel about it. Despite her roommate's constant denials that she felt anything for Tom Riddle, her guts told her something was going on between the two. So it was her curiosity that made her get up from her seat, giving an excuse that she needed to take care of lady business.

She made her way down the corridor slowly, peeking in most cabins, until she reached the end of the wagon, where one of the compartments had the curtain drawn down. Varya frowned, then placed her hand on the golden knob, and pushed at the door gently.

Riddle and Selwyn sat in the compartment across from each other, both wearing sinister glares on their faces. As soon as they heard the door open, their gazes snapped to Varya, and Tom narrowed his eyes at her.

"Yes, Petrov?" he asked, voice ungracious as he took in her presence.

Varya heard Elladora scoff, "Oh, why do you not have her do it, then?".

"Do what?" asked Varya, shutting the door behind her as she stepped inside the compartment. Elladora patted the seat next to her, an invitation, and the Slavic girl gladly took it, sitting down across from Tom, who had an odd look on his face.

"Tom wants me to slip poison in the glasses of some of the attendants at the Rosier Manor, hopes it will help them open up about what is going on," she said, ignoring the warning gaze that Tom shot her. Despite her unyielding loyalty, Elladora was a girl with an incredible sense of self-preservation, Varya had learned, and she did not want to carry out tasks that could endanger her family reputation.

"Selwyn, Varya does not have the dexterity, nor the experience with potions, that you do. Furthermore, I am growing very tired of your rebellious behavior. As much as I value your loyalty, I prefer when it comes naturally, rather than having to force it with an iron hand," said Tom icily, not even bothering to hide his threat behind careful words.

Elladora blanched, and, against the moving background of the window, she resembled the fragile redheaded beauty that Varya had befriended on her first day at Hogwarts, deer eyes staring at her with a silent plea. Varya did not know if it was the fragments of their friendship that rested in her soul, or the unexplainable need to prove herself to Riddle, but she found herself gesturing the other girl to leave the compartment.

The fiery-haired girl sent her a look of gratitude before scurrying away, shutting the moving door behind her. Now, the moving machinery's coach rested two equally disturbed souls, both fighting an endless battle of dominance and supremacy. Riddle was angered over the insubordination of his followers, and he blamed Petrov's existence for it. Ever since her arrival, it had become harder to get them to obey him without questions, her constant defiance setting an example for them. Nevertheless, just because Tom could not bring himself to torture Varya's physical state, it did not mean they were free of consequences, and his sinister mind was already scheming ways to get back at Selwyn.

The moving train bounced with each metal railway that it strode over, crossing the white hills with incredible speed. To the casual onlooker, it might have seemed to be your ordinary string of wagons, gray smoke rising from its coal-fueled engine, but at second glance, one might have noticed the unexplainable amount of pet owls that flew behind it, or the oddly out-of-fashion robes worn by its passengers.

Of course, no muggle would turn their head twice towards the moving train, their eyes only trained on the sky— waiting, watching, fearing. They were too preoccupied with their own sorrowful present to notice the magic that was hiding beneath their nose.

"Petrov, what gives you the impression that you can order my accomplices around? It has become a habit, and I do not appreciate it."

Varya aimed her eyes on him, watching his fretful expression grow tired, and she realized he had uttered those words a few seconds before, but the girl had only just registered them.

"As it has become a habit for you not to trust my capabilities?" she questioned him, her posture resembling that of a trained and powerful woman, legs crossed and chin held high as she watched him with eagle eyes.

"Trust you?" he scoffed, "When I asked you to extract information from Newton Scamander, all you could do was drink your weight in champagne and then dust off the floors with your lover and two pathetic friends."

Varya did not know which word was muttered with more disgust, and she found herself insulted at his insinuations. She had not told him of the warning Scamander had given her, because frankly, she did not trust Riddle not to use her as some sort of bait or further endanger her. Parading herself around Grindelwald's followers was already too much of a risk, and yet she was willing to put her neck out in hopes of proving her loyalty to Tom— even if it was a facade.

"And so you go behind my back— you recruit the person who tortured me for months, and you believe she will solve the problem?" Varya said, raising her voice at the boy.

Tom got to his feet, suddenly pulling his wand out and pointing it at her nose.

"Do not dare raise your voice against me, Petrov!" he spat her name with such virulence it made her heart jump, but she did not flatter.

Before Tom could even register what was going on, Varya got up to her feet, grabbed his wand, and pulled it out of his hand, throwing it at the floor with aggression. She twisted his arm forcefully, then grabbed his hair, and put the blade to his throat. Her wrath was indescribable, and for the first time in a while, she felt her demonic magic surge through her veins, no longer held back by the small amounts of poison that had flown through her internal liquids for months.

There was quietness in the room, but the tension was palpable, and their breathes synced in a swirl of fierceness and recognition. Tom grabbed at her blade, but Varya only pushed it harder, so close to drawing blood.

"All I would have to do to kill you on the spot would be to mutter an incantation. Perhaps, you have forgotten I know wandless magic," he breathed, ignoring the stinge of his Adam's apple bobbing against the dagger's pressure.

"I would slit your throat before you got past Avada, Riddle."

Then, she retracted her hand, pushing against his back and sending him flying into the sofa seat opposite of her. He turned slowly, face so vivid it resembled a roaming incubus, carrying the most gruesome blood-lust she had ever seen on a man. His hair was sticking up in odd directions, ruffled by her grip, and his breath was heavy, notwithstanding his best attempt at controlling it. Despite all, Varya thought he looked ravishing.

"I will spill your guts on this carpet, Petrov," he thundered, voice shaking with rage, and Varya had never seen the boy so unsettled.

"If you could, you would have done so already," she bit back insolently, taking her a seat yet again, and watching him as he arranged his hair and calmed himself down. It was hypnotic, how fast he could switch from his sociopathic rage to the impassiveness of a model boy.

He sat across her, once again, and she did not miss the way his hand subconsciously scratched at his throat, almost as if checking that his artery was still in place. Varya had managed to mess with Tom Riddle's mind.

"Do not underestimate me, Riddle, or you might find yourself in a situation you are not quite proud of" she told him coldly, eyes analyzing every twitch in his face, scanning for a crack in his calmness that could indicate him plotting his vengeance. "I can work on this myself."

Tom narrowed his eyes at her, "It would make everyone's lives easier if you just accepted Selwyn's help and stopped being so arrogant, but be it as you would have it, how will you get them to talk?"

"I do not need potions," she huffed, gaze falling on the moving trees in the winter scenery, "Not when I can slip my own cursed objects in their pockets."

"Cursed?" inquired Tom, suddenly intrigued by the thought. Varya smirked, noticing that she had gotten his attention.

"Yes, cursed, I can perform my own incantations, and then I will make sure each target gets a small piece of misfortune," she said, hands gesturing without purpose, "I will play with their emotions, I can even curse them unable to lie, either way, believe me when I say this— I will not disappoint."

Tom watched her, relishing in her newfound cunning mind, and admired the way her lips moved to form words of devotion to his cause. He felt her need to prove herself to him, to earn his respect, and he savored it like a Turkish delicacy, so aromatic and yet pleasurable. Her eyes were two stones of heliotrope, the blood-gem, and whatever ray of light was captured on her retina, it was quickly stomped by her dragonic pride.

Then, he nodded to her, a pleased smirk on his face, and his skin crawled at the way brief assurance passed on her face, the innocent belief that she was slowly gaining his trust. But Tom knew, above all, that he could never feel something other than loathing for the girl. She got up, then left the compartment in silence, and his eyes trailed her graceful figure as it moved down the corridor.

His hand flew to his neck once again, and as he swallowed harshly, he cleared his throat. With some sort of admiration, Tom Riddle realized that, for the first time in his existence, he had been frightened by someone else's blood-lust. Perhaps, it was him that had underestimated her.


	25. chapter twenty-three

London had grown more morose over the few months Della Beauchamp had been away from home, and now, Varya watched her aghast face as they walked down Euston Road, her teary eyes glancing back and forth between the fallen buildings and the homeless people that cradled themselves underneath whatever cover they could find, trying to shield their bodies from the harsh winter wind.

The Blitz had happened two years ago, and the city was still recovering from the terrible bombings, many families having been displaced, their homes destroyed. It was the winter of 1943, and Hitler had just started retracting from the Eastern Front. The Western side, however, would still have years of suffering ahead of them, and the Teheran Conference was still deciding on when to oppose the nazi forces on the French territories.

Varya watched as a group of soldiers passed them, and was astounded to find them smiling as they chattered eagerly amongst themselves, patrolling the streets. They could not have been much older than her, their faces still carrying the youth of teenagers, and yet they had been ripped from their families' comfortable homes to fight against the heinous greed of their world leaders. Even those who survived were victims.

Almost as if hearing her thoughts, one soldier turned towards Varya, a hint of a grin still stitched on his face due to the lively conversation he had just had. He met her eyes, and Varya held her breath at his intense stare. He was a handsome lad, around her age, and his uniform fit him snuggly. He carried a gun on his shoulder, and Varya gazed with wonder at it, pondering how it would feel like to shoot a bullet instead of a spell.

"Excuse me," she heard him mutter to his friends, then watched as he made his way towards her with prideful steps. He stopped about a meter away from her, maintaining a respectful distance, then he bowed slightly. "Hello, m' lady."

His accent was viscid, and despite her lack of knowledge of British dialects, she could tell it was not Londonese, too dense and too rushed. It sounded almost rural, as he ate at the vows in his words. Varya gave him a slight nod, unsure of what to say. She had never spoken to a muggle so directly and had never found herself to be so nervous in one's presence.

"Could not 'elp but notice your staring, and I must admit, found it to be quite flattering. The name is William Parker, at your service," he bowed once again, this time making sure his gun was placed on his hip, not on his shoulder. A courteous gesture for a maiden, but Varya was not accustomed to muggle manners, so she only returned the bow awkwardly.

"Varya Petrov," she said, suddenly insecure of her Slavic intonation, which made her English feel butchered compared to the flattering tone of the boy.

"Petrov? Russian name, I see— or Slavic, nonetheless," he continued, cheekily smiling at her as he watched Della approach them again. He bowed to her as well, ignoring the faint blush on the woman's cheeks.

"I am from Romania, actually," she stated, although she knew it was not her actual nationality. She had never looked into that, too scared to see her family history sprawled out in front of her.

The boy frowned, suddenly, and spat at the ground, "Cowardly traitors, they 'ave fought along with the Axis, and 'ave doomed the world. Unfortunate to hear about the bombing, though, and I fear the soviet army will soon make them surrender by force. Your marshal 'as had his time of dictatorship, and the Allies plan to support the royal family in their rise back to power; I have 'eard."

Varya frowned, sending a confused look towards Della, who gave her one of understanding. Had her home been bombed, and she was not even aware of it? Noticing her confusion, William blanched and muttered a string of apologies.

"My bad, m' lady, did not know you were not aware. I pray for your family, despite whatever belief your country holds. I can tell you are not of bad seed."

The irony in his statement hurt because Varya's parents had also been on the wrong side of the war, and now they were dead. She did not correct him; however, only plastering on a fake smile, and reassured he had not offended.

"William! Get your arse back 'ere and leave the ladies alone, will ya'?"

The young soldier turned towards his friends, who were now grinning at his humiliation, and then he muttered a small goodbye, face reddened by his misfortune. The two girls watched his retreating back, both sighing in awe at the muggle's charming appearance.

They continued their journey, time in which Della explained her family's situation. Her father had been drafted in the war the previous spring, and it would be her first Christmas without him, so her heart hurt more than usual. Varya was surprised by the confession, as she had not even thought about the witch's muggle parents being affected by the war. She suddenly had a newfound respect for the Ravenclaw, who had always managed to keep a smile on her face, despite the threat of her father's demise looming over her head.

Della had also managed to convince her mum to celebrate Christmas on the twenty-third, the day before Varya was to leave, so that she could truly experience the warmth of a festive holiday. It made the Slavic girl feel guilty, as she had lied to her friend that she had to return to her estate before Christmas and ensure that it was still in good shape. Truthfully, Varya had not visited her parents' house in years, and it had probably been turned to rubble by now due to the bombardments.

Eventually, the car they had taken stopped in front of a modest home, and Della hopped off with excitement, running to the back and taking out their trunks before the driver could even open the door for the young ladies. She grabbed Varya's hand and dragged her towards the entrance.

The Beauchamp house was not the most luxurious Varya had ever seen, but it was definitely the most cordial. The reddened bricks had been chipped in places, and the dark wooden door had a few Christmas branches stuck to it, red bows tied at the bottom. Looking to her right, Varya saw a few muggle children constructing a snow-man, sticking the orange carrot right in the center of its face.

"Mama!" Della's screech gained her attention, and Varya watched a small, round woman open the door. In her youth, she would have been, perhaps, beautiful just like her daughter, but time had not been forgiving with her, and her hair had lost its shine. Even so, her eyes sparkled with glee, the joy of a beautiful soul, and Varya knew it was a trait in the family.

"My little joy!" Annie Beauchamp beamed, hugging her daughter with an incredible amount of motherly love. Then, she turned to her guest, her smile still as stretched, and it made Varya feel hesitant. "And you must be Varya, I have heard so much about you— ah, let us talk inside, it has gotten quite chilly, has it not?"

Varya trailed behind the two as she stepped over the doorframe, eyes widening at the extraordinary Christmas decorations that ornated the living room and entrance. It was an open space, the hallway leading into the brown-walled sitting area, and it was modest but warm-hearted. A towering Christmas tree stood by the fireplace, its lights twinkling against the soft glow of the room's lightbulb, and it was decorated with a multitude of red, golden, and white.

A mahogany carpet was sprawled on the ground, and a medium-sized dog was chewing at an odd-looking toy.

"Archie, look at you!" yelled Della, throwing herself on the ground as the dog started barking with excitement, rolling on his belly, then jumping over the girl. It started licking at her face, and as much as Della giggled and pushed him away, he would not budge until Annie Beauchamp called for him.

Della raised to sit on her elbows, then waved Varya to come inside. The girl did so shyly, taking her shoes off first, as was expected of Slavic countries, and dragged her suitcase beside her friend.

"Girls, go to your rooms and change quickly, dinner is almost ready, and I am excited to learn about that...odd school of yours," Annie's voice rang from the kitchen, and Varya felt herself be hauled once again and up the stairs.

"We do not have a guest room, rent in London is already pricy, and we could not afford it, I hope it is not a bother. My mum bought a small mattress, and you can take the bed—"

"Nonsense, Della, you have already been so welcoming. I will gladly take the mattress," smiled Varya as her friend opened the door to her room.

Della's room was the imagery of her character. It had shelves of stacked books, most of them of muggle literature, and some were even in messy piles on her floor. Her walls were Ravenclaw blue, and Varya almost snorted at the irony, with her ceiling having oddly painted stars. At night, they glowed, Della explained, and it had been her father who had drawn them for her because she had always enjoyed stargazing. Ever since the start of the war, it was not safe to stay outside at night, and every falling star could be an approaching enemy aircraft.

Her bed was in the corner, sheets clean, but the girl laughed, saying it had been her mother that had washed them, as Della had left in a rush on the 1st of September. Next to it, a small mattress was on the floor, but it had so many pillows it was undoubtedly more comfortable than the bunk beds Varya slept on at her old school.

The girls changed quickly, and Varya had to borrow a sweater from her friend, as most of her clothes did not belong in the muggle world. She was appalled when her friend pulled out a pair of cotton pants for her, as she found it ridiculous to wear such attire, but after persistent begging, she dressed with them. Varya had to admit, they were extremely comfortable, and wearing them could quickly become a habit.

They went back down quickly, giggling as they bumped into each other along the small staircase, and as soon as they entered the kitchen, Varya's mouth watered at the sight of the food that was laid on the table. For the first time in months, the girls would be able to eat chicken, as Hogwarts had stopped serving it for a reason unknown to them. Students had just assumed they were in shortage due to the ongoing war, as most foods came from muggle farms, and now they were supplying their combat troops.

"I am telling you, mum, if Varya were not a transfer, she would have surely been a prefect as well! She is second in most of her classes, but we might as well say she is first, because only Tom Riddle manages to beat her constantly, and we all know he was more machinery than man."

Varya choked on her hot chocolate, laughter bubbling in her chest at Della's complaints, her tone carrying rejoinder that she would have never shown in front of the Slytherin prefect.

"Is he as bad as Della says?" Annie asked her guest, eyes radiating at her daughter's stories.

Varya thought for a second about the serpent boy, then let a small smile rest on her lips, "No, not really. Misunderstood, perhaps."

Della scoffed, then rolled her eyes, "She only says that because she is in love with him or something—"

Varya struck her friend over the head, ignoring the heavy wince that left her mouth, and tried to cover her reddening cheeks with her hands, embarrassed at the idea. She was horrified by the words, not even allowing herself to think she could carry such feelings for the boy whose throat she had placed a dagger against only hours ago.

And yet, her heart beat faster.

"And what about you and Malfoy, then?" Varya stuttered, ignoring the pleading gaze her friend shot her. She heard Annie gasp; then, a flying shoe was sent their way, both of them ducking just in time to avoid the collision.

"Della Beauchamp!" the woman screeched, mouth open in shock. "Boys at the age of fifteen? Wait until your father hears about this—"

The mother stopped herself, suddenly painfully aware of the sorrow in Della's eyes. She missed her father greatly, and it was slowly killing her not to know what was happening to him. She had told Varya that they could only send correspondence once a month. However, because of the approaching threat of german resistance, they had been too preoccupied with keeping themselves alive.

"Honey..."

"It is fine," Della smiled, blinking her tears away rapidly, "It is not your fault, mum, I just— I want to know that he is all right, that is all."

Varya looked at her with furrowed eyebrows, not used to seeing her friend sad. The Ravenclaw prefect had only ever smiled around her, and it was unusual to see her in any other way, but also calming. It made her human.

Suddenly, an idea struck Varya, "Wait here."

She ran up the stairs, opening the door to the room she had left her bag in, then started searching in it until she found a medium-sized, compact mirror. Varya then opened one of her pouches in which she had brought some potion ingredients, knowing they would suffice until she could reach Diagon Alley.

She made her way back down and noticed the two women were still sitting at the table, Annie gently patting her daughter's back as she sobbed silently. "Do you have anything that belongs to your father?" asked Varya, and Annie nodded, making her way to the living room.

"Varya, what are you doing?" Della asked, eyeing the bag of ingredients as the Slavic girl settled everything on the table. "We cannot do magic outside of the school, the Trace—"

"The Trace does not work on me, Della, I am a foreigner, and the Ministry has not put the charm on me yet," Varya explained, "and believe me, the Romanian Ministry could care less about tracking our spells when they openly let us practice dark arts."

She did not miss the way the girl winced at the mention of back magic but ignored it as she placed the mirror on the table, circling it with moonstone powder, then drawing a symbol on its back with phoenix feather ash. Annie came back into the room, and handed Varya an old-fashioned hat, that the girl placed in front of her setting.

She closed her eyes, right hand on the mirror, then started whispering the incantation, feeling the prying eyes of the muggle woman in the room. Varya was surely breaking dozens of rules by doing this, but she knew the Ministry would not be able to track it back to her, especially since she was not using her wand.

Varya stopped when she felt the mirror sizzle in her hand, and she cracked her dark eyes, staring at the heated object, relishing in the way it burned against her skin. She opened it slowly, and surely enough, she saw a man that carried Della's eye color and gracefulness in a camp, resting on his bed as he was reading what seemed to be a newspaper.

She passed the magical object to Della and saw her eyes flood rapidly, Annie letting out a gasp behind her. Della started wailing loudly, resting her forehead against her palm, and then she looked up at Varya with the most gratitude the girl had ever received.

"Varya," she breathed between cries, struggling to piece her thankfulness together as she looked at her friend through foggy eyes, "You have no idea how much this means to me— to us."

Varya headed to her side of the table, embracing her friend as she cried in her shoulder, this time with relief and happiness. She squeezed her hand, massaging circles in her palm, and muttering words of reassurance.

"My Christmas gift for you," she said, slowly stroking the girl's hair, "You will always be able to watch over him, and I placed a good luck charm on his hat, it should keep him safe."

For the rest of the night, she stood by Della, finally understanding what it felt like to be kind to others.


	26. chapter twenty-four

Her limbs were shivering from the brisk December blow as she stepped outside of the Beauchamp residence, Della's mother telling them to be back before sundown. The girls bobbed their heads eagerly, berets plopped on their heads and old-fashioned cloaks wrapped around them, then headed down the London roads. Varya Petrov's spirit was charged with some unexplainable burden as she passed collapsed neighborhoods, ravaged streets, and outrooted trees, her eyes lingering on each dreary face that she saw across the street.

They were headed to Diagon Alley, as the girl had managed to convince the Beauchamp women that the two scholars needed to refill their supplies, and with half-a-heart, Annie had accepted. Varya's pocket burned with the weight of the address Maxwell Nott had given her, and her brain devised how to get away from Della so that she could fulfill her mission, eager to see what Caractacus Burke knew about her predicament.

She reminisced back to the night in the Forbidden Forest when she had mercilessly killed the innocent Thestral, and her skin covered in goosebumps. It had been soul-splitting, almost as if she had felt the creature's torment, suffering, and melancholy that Varya had never endured before, and she knew it was strange. It had been almost as if she had connected with it, and while Varya was aware that her training at Scholomance had given her incredible inclinations with creatures, she knew there was more to it.

They turned the corner before Diagon Alley, and Varya watched Della knock on the bricks in the same manner Dumbledore had, waiting for them to part and let them enter the wizarding world. As soon as the bricks moved, Varya was surrounded by the sense of familiarity, and the giddiness she had felt on her first visit was still there.

The block was filled with hurried sorcerers, and the magic droned in the wind as the two Hogwarts students strolled around the shops, pointing to random windows and marveling at the mystic objects that were on display.

"We ought to stop by Rosa Lea Teabag, they produce the most divine brews," wheezed Della, facing one of the dainty shops by the end of the road, but Varya's stomach churned at the thought of tea herbs. She had not savored their sweetness in a few weeks, too fearful of trusting they had not been meddled with.

"The shop's fragrance makes me squeamish, how about we get our supplies from the Apothecary, and then you go without me while I visit the nearby market?" offered Varya, and her friend nodded at the idea, although reluctant to separate.

They headed to the Apothecary, and when they opened the scabby door, the two girls instantly stifled at the rancid odor of the store, something between stale eggs and putrid herbs. Even so, the stinging scent of composture was no match for the endless shelves of potion ingredients, varied in commonness, and Varya found herself mesmerized by the newfangled objects arranged behind some of the glass cases. One of them seemed to have some kind of refrigerated eggs behind it, and as she tapped against the glass, she saw it budge slightly.

"Ashwinder eggs, very flammable, do not touch," read Della, then gave her companion a droll glance, "Glad you obey rules, Petrov."

"They look quite devious," said the Eastern witch, still fascinated by their transparency and texture.

"They ar' used in love potions."

Both girls turned in harmony, alarmed by the adenoidal whine of the shop owner, a prickly chap that had to have some giant blood in him. He towered over the two witches, and as he made his way to them, he managed to knock over a few pots. He cussed, then picked them up and placed them in their spots, only to knock some more as he stepped. Once he stood in front of them, Varya could make out a nametag on his old vest— Barbaros Maxime.

"Are you the storekeeper?" asked Della, her British dialect contrasting against his.

"No, ma'am, I am only a worker," he responded, then gestured to his nametag, "how may I help ya'?"

"We are only here for the basics," stated Varya, and she followed him as he paced back to the front counter, catching a vase that had almost plummeted to the ground.

The presumed half-giant went to the back and searched around for specific packages that he always kept at hand for Hogwarts students, before placing them on the desk.

"Anythin' else?"

"Let us look around," said Varya, then she pulled her friend behind some shelves, and they started roaming around curiously, almost as if competing for the most appalling finding. They did not even register the bell-chime as the door opened once again.

Varya walked over to Della, holding up a jaw of what seemed to be octopus eyes, and wiggled them in front of her friend's displeased face. She shoved them away in repulsion, ducking underneath Varya's hand and sailing to the other end of the store. She chatted enthusiastically over her shoulder, and the Slavic witch followed closely behind.

"You never told me, by the way, what happened with you and Lestrange," said the girl, eyes sauntering over the potion cupboards.

"Lestrange?" Varya inquired, eyebrows furrowing, "I do not know myself, he is keeping his distance, and I cannot understand why."

"I think I might know," said Della, then she turned to face her colleague, eyes looking around the room "—Riddle!"

Varya derided, "What does Riddle have to do with this?"

"No—" Della spoke, seizing her shoulders and twirling her around, "Riddle, right there!"

Hearing his name being called, Tom threw a jaded glance in their general direction, breath hitching when his sight fell on the Slavic witch. Of course, she was accompanied by her mudblood friend, and it provoked him terribly that she kept such flawed company. He hurriedly scanned the salon, before leisurely making his way to the two ladies, who were exchanging nimble glances. The Ravenclaw prefect whispered something to her friend, then sped out of the room, leaving the two Slytherins in each other's presence.

"Fancy seeing you here," grumbled Riddle, almost jeering at the way her cheeks coated in a rich rouge.

"Yes, I am staying with Della, as I said in the carriage," she explained, although her eyes were looking anywhere besides at him, and that bothered the boy.

"Is that so?" he purred, slowly approaching her, until the shelves hid them completely. He enjoyed their game, the charade of two soulless beings, and he wanted to test the limit of her wits and see just how resistant she was to his bewitchery. He had noticed her fluttering eyelashes, the way her breath stopped just for a second whenever he would pass her in the hallway, and Tom wanted to know how much it would take for her to break.

"Piss off, Riddle," she groaned, pushing him to the side as she beelined towards the shopkeeper, slamming a few galleons on the table before she picked up her packages.

Tom watched her, a mix of snarling and hatred, then trailed behind Varya as the girl exited the shop, suddenly forgetting the reason for which he was visiting the store in the first place. He watched her hat slowly drift from her silky hair, which batted in the wind like tall prairie grass, and reached out a hand to push it back to its desired position. The girl shot him an incredulous look, then halted in the midst of the streets.

"Hold this," she said, dumping her packages in his arms, and Tom barely managed to keep them from slumping, as he growled at how she was commanding him. The girl pulled out a tiny piece of paper from her pocket, and looked at the street signs, before turning back to him. "Come with me to this strange shop, will you?"

Then she continued her walk, not even bothering to take her ingredients back from his grasps, and the boy only followed her mutely, prying as to what the foxy witch was up to. Last he remembered, Maxwell had given her a street address in Diagon Alley that she was supposed to visit, and Tom could only assume that was where she was heading.

They entered a clouded shop, eyes scanning the stuffed room, and Tom's eyes ignited at the vast objects advertised along the shop, immediately feeling the foreboding throb they emitted. He put Varya's packages on a table at the front, and proceeded to wander around the room, scanning the counters.

His eyes stopped on a necklace, a caution sign that told him it was cursed rested on the glass, and it almost made him want to rip it down, then trick the witch by his side into touching it. It would have been suitable vengeance for the treatment he had received in the train, he supposed, and he was still wondering how to get back at her for that. He had debated hexing her, perhaps, even using an unforgivable curse, but as unfortunate as it was, Petrov was a crucial piece in his master game of chess.

Tom needed her at the party; he wanted her to dig up as much information on Grindelwald as possible, uncover his tactics and secrets, then report them back to him. If his plan were successful, Riddle would soon have information on some of the most important families in the wizarding world and their alliance.

The back door opened with a screeching sound, and a tall, rangy wizard made his way to the main room. Riddle regarded him with apprehension, the way his thin mustache covered his upper lip with a swirl, and when the man smirked at Varya Petrov, his sneer was as sleazy and insincere as a ravenous brute. His attire was snobbish, but he was no Malfoy. No, this wizard screamed of new money status, decked in the daintiest silk, so pretentious he looked foolish against the dreary backdrop of the store.

"Yes?" he asked, and even his timbre resembled that of a conniving fox, "What brings such young people in Knockturn Alley? This is not the place for the likes of you..."

"Are you Caracatacus Burke?" asked Varya, walking up to the man despite his apparent conniving nature, watching him with recalcitrant eyes. Even so, her beret and fuzzy coat took away from her usual stance, and to the old wizard, she looked like a child who was about to throw a tantrum.

"Young lady, it is discourteous to question your elders in such manners. Have your parents not taught you anything?"

"They are dead," she said, face not moving an inch, and the man puffed at the information.

"My apologies," he said insincerely, gradually heading to the front of the store, "To answer your question— yes, I am Caracatus Burke, and you are sitting in my store right now, Borgin and Burkes."

Tom nodded, having been aware of the name as soon as he entered, as he had heard Malfoy and Avery discuss it countless of times. Indeed, Borgin and Burkes was not the sort of shop that Hogwarts classmates frequented, as it sold mysterious trinkets and objects, as well as books that would not grace any school library. The boy bit his cheek, then clasped his hands behind his back as he made his way to stand by Varya's side.

"I am seeking a book on demoniac creatures and affinities," declared the girl, placing her frail hands on the desk, attracting the owner's attention. He raised an eyebrow at her, before his lips curled in a furtive leer.

"I do not market my collection to just anyone, miss, and I do not think your age makes such readings suitable."

Then, the girl thumped something against the table, followed by a sealed bag that shone against the flat surface, and gawked at Burke with an indifferent grimace. The man gave her a prompt glance, before picking up the small object with a jittery hand. He brought it to his eyes, then used his monocle to take a more meticulous inspection.

"Hm, I see..." he muttered, placing the item back on the table, and only then did Tom examine the small golden button, the roaring lynx craved carefully on it.

The boy had seen it before, and deduced that the badge belonged to the gown that Varya had worn at Slughorn's Christmas gathering. He had apprehended how it suited her, and Tom thought that slytherian green was a blood-chilling look on her. Of course, he knew that the lynx was a symbol of her family line, as he had asked Maxwell to investigate her past during the early days of their first week. Even so, he had thought her heedless to wear the emblem in a room full of wizards that opposed Grindelwald, and he did not know why she had added the detail to her dress.

Then, the shopkeeper upturned the bag, letting a dozen galleons fall on the table, and Tom's eyes widened at the girl's flaunt of wealth. He had assumed Dumbledore had given her some access to her family assets, but he had forgotten just how impressively wealthy her family had been.

"Perhaps, that will make you look past my age," Varya said, her tone having an absolute finality to it.

Burke nodded, already stuffing the coins in his pocket, "Very well, head to the back of the room, and you will find all that your heart desires."

Tom stood in his spot as Varya passed him eagerly, citric fragrance hitting his senses. His head whirred because of it, and he furrowed his eyebrow in bewilderment. Was the smell so sickening? It was not unpleasant, yet he felt himself grow restless whenever he was close enough to catch it.

He snapped out of it, not wanting to dwell on such thoughts, and then, his eyes fell on something unique. It was another necklace, elegantly built, and it was displayed at the front counter, glowing bright green. This one was not cursed, Tom apprehended, and as he examined the engravings, his mind twisted with frightful devilry. No, this was no doomed locket, but it would become something terrifying.

He smirked, then glanced at Caractacus Burke as he approached him, "Sir, do you know the origins of this locket?".

The wizard looked at the display, then nodded with a prideful leer, "Well, of course, it is the locket of Salazar Slytherin, I have had it in my collection for many years, such an antique artifact. A gal brought it, stupid child, sold it for ten galleons. I could tell she was frantic, dressed in ripped garments and stained hands. She looked like a lunatic if you ask me." Then, he turned rapidly, walking in another direction, "But you cannot afford it, child, so go your way."

Tom clenched his jaw, glowering at the man's back, ruminating about how easy it would be to strike him. He felt a clot of agitation pump through his bloodstream, and with each heart stroke, it metastasized, doubling, then tripling. Before he knew it, Tom was pacing rapidly toward the elder, sight obscured with barbarian ferocity, and he could almost feel his hand clasped around the man's windpipe, squeezing vigorously. He was enraged beyond magic, to the point where he wanted to watch the life essence spill from Burke's eyes gradually, naturally.

He felt a palm on his shoulder, and he spun to stare at Varya, the girl being taken aback by the animalistic madness in his orbs, and her eyes goggled, "Are you good, Riddle?".

He huffed, then waggled his body away from her touch, almost as if it had electrified him, too painstakingly aware of her proximity. There it was again, the phantom aroma of citric mixed with a tinge of mint, and he felt his head murmur. He took another step backward, cursing the way it rattled him, and his nostrils flared.

"You are still here, boy? I told you, the medallion is not for sale," came the voice of the shopkeeper, and Varya glanced at the enclosed locket, cherishing its alluring radiance. It was terrific, and she could feel the foreign temptation that it pulsed. Is this why Riddle was irate?

"I found what I needed," she suddenly interrupted and watched Tom scowl at the man before exiting the shop in a fury. Varya thought he was about to leave, but he stopped at the entrance, waiting for her.

Caracatacus Burke urged her forward, and she placed her books on the desk, stealing glances at the locket. It was enclosed in a vitrine, made of sturdy glass, and probably had multiple charms placed on it, and yet her sly mind started whirling, conceiving, contriving.

She beamed pleasantly at the man, "Sir, do you have any newer editions of the volume on poltergeists?".

The man grumbled, running a frustrated hand through eclipsed hair with silvery streaks, and Varya watched as the oil at his roots spread through his strands, sleeking back his hair. He swerved on his feet, then headed to the back door, and the girl knew she had to act hastily.

Why was she doing this? She had seen Tom look at it, and something pushed her to act out of character. She pulled out her wand, tapping it against the glass. Indeed, it had some defensive spells, but she broke them apart promptly, then opened the glass box, carefully slipping the locket in her robe. She placed back a pin from her hair, then transfigured it to look like the necklace. Varya knew the spell would not last long, but they would hopefully both be far away by then.

She returned to the desk just as Burke came out again, hands carrying a few volumes, and she slammed another bag of gold on his register, picking up her books and muttering a few grunted apologies of mistaking the number on the book's binding. The man barely registered the girl picking up her books and potion ingredients, as she dashed out of the door.

Tom Riddle watched her come out in a fluster, and raised an eyebrow at her, but he had no chance to assume anything as she continued walking back to the main road, books bouncing on top of her ingredient boxes, and he had to catch one of them as it fell from the pile. He huffed at her pitiful figure, covered by the stacks of heaviness, then stopped her.

"Give me your bag," he ordered, and Varya scowled as he pulled at her rucksack, then her eyes widened when he pulled out his wand, silently casting a charm on it.

"The Trace-" she said, much as Della had to her.

"There are so many wizards here they would not be able to tell I was the one to cast the spell," he complained, then gave her a satisfied smirk, "Nevertheless, I found my way around it years ago."

Then, he started stuffing her acquisitions in her bag, and the girl gasped as she saw everything disappear in it, almost as if her books had ceased to exist. Tom passed her the bag, and she heard the volumes hitting against each other. Undetectable Extension Charm.

"Thank you," she said, giving him a grin, and the boy taunted at it, pivoting on his feet and walking ahead. She ran after him, wondering what the boy was up to next. "Where are you headed?"

A few passing moments of reticence, then, his speech broke through, barely above a whisper, "The orphanage."

Varya glanced at him and grimaced. His empty hands were perplexing, and she wondered what the boy had even come for, because he had not bought anything, nor had he expressed genuine interest in anything but the necklace. They stopped in front of the tea shop, and Varya saw her friend, Della, coming out carrying a huge jar of teabags.

"I found the ones my mum likes— oh, hello Riddle."

Tom nodded at her, eyes barely skimming over her face before he stared off into space, at nothing in particular, a brooding look taking over his features. Varya smiled, then linked herself with Della's arm, ignoring the way her friend cast her a troubled look. They continued to walk side by side, Varya painfully aware of the locket she still held in her robe, and she wondered if giving it to Riddle was the better option.

Eventually, they passed the brick wall, heading into the crisp London air, and Varya drew in a sorrowful breath as she looked over the fallen city once again, so contrasting to the beauty of the wizarding world. Nevertheless, she could not bring herself to think of helping those muggles, but rather, she prayed that such monstrosity would never be bestowed upon her world.

She glanced at Tom Riddle, a man of great power, who would one day bring bleakness over the magic lands, who would butcher with a bitter heart, the blood of his foes sprawled on the pavement of every battle. A maestro who would inspire many, but not in the right doings, bring down hellfire, unleash demonic hounds to roam the Earth, and enslave every dark creature in his schemes.

Her heart ruptured with admiration, as one would in the presence of someone with destiny for greatness, and for a second, Varya let her darkness reach out to his own, stroking its margins, almost trying to grasp and intertwine. As if he had felt it, Tom's moonish eyes rested on her, and her pulse racked like a blacksmith's hammer, completely entranced by his aura. It was Varya's elusiveness at his stare that made him lift an eyebrow, and when her lips slightly parted, he waited for words that he presumed would render him speechless, as they often did.

But the girl turned her head, and they parted ways once again.


	27. chapter twenty-five

Salazar Slytherin's locket swayed in the hazy glare of the early dusk as Varya Petrov stood on the Beauchamp's veranda, chin rested in one palm, and she gawked at the eccentric object, not knowing its origin. Once again, she was donning comfortable pants, having given up on wearing her refined skirts and ruffles, and a few older men bizarrely glanced at her. She wanted to hex their revolted expressions off of their faces, but there were certain spells even the Eastern witch could not get away with.

Della Beauchamp was across the street, helping a few children construct a snow fort, and Varya was reminded that the Ravenclaw prefect was only fifteen, and much more wholesome than she was. A small yawn left the witch, and she found herself sinking back on the steps and looking at the sky.

The sun had just fallen and was now standing above some of the snowed rooftops of the nearby houses, its pale beams hitting the spectral girl's face. They barely carried any warmness, but they were delightful, as the typical London climate had iced Varya's bones.

The girls had woken up early, as Della had been remarkably enthusiastic about opening the presents, and their morning had been filled with merry celebrations. To the Slavic girl's astonishment, Annie had gifted Varya a hand-made sweater, a muggle literature book, and a pair of black boots, which the girl was currently wearing proudly.

She had felt ashamed at not purchasing anything for either Beauchamp women from Diagon Alley, her mind too distracted by Tom Riddle's presence. However, they had both assured her that the mirror had been more than enough, the kind of gift that stood above everything else.

Varya peered at the book in her lap, Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy, and felt something akin to allegiance rise in her heart, as the novel described Imperial Russia, and it had awoken in the girl something that she did not know she had. The need for closure, the need to look into her family's past.

Perhaps, Rosier's party was where she should start, as many of the attendees would have known her parents, but a part of her still dreaded the event. She was scheduled to take a train from London to Paris tomorrow, and then, from Paris, she would take the Floo Network, as most of France was still under German occupation. Ren had sent her a letter a few days ago, and Varya had thanked Satan that she recognized his majestic owl, as Della had not gotten a chance to see it.

She felt shameful to deceive her hospitable friend in such a way, especially after having spent the first week of her Christmas break in her company, eating her food and sleeping on her floor, but in a way, it was for the better. The less Della knew, the less likely she would get hurt, and Varya could not bear to lose her.

"That is a marvelous necklace," Della gasped as she neared her, eyes trained on the locket. "And it is quite suited for a Slytherin."

Varya glanced at it again, holding it up, and grinned. Indeed, it was suited for a Slytherin, and the girl knew exactly which one. Even so, a part of her told her not to give it to the boy, almost like a gut feeling, and she was a girl that easily trusted her impulses. Instead, she found herself clasping it against her own neck, and grinned at how it stood against her protruding collarbone.

She looked up at her friend, who had a bit of frost in her hair, and whose cheeks were colored with a profound crimson from the cold and excitement of another winter day. "Fancy going for a walk to a nearby pub?"

Della did not have to be told twice, as she grabbed Varya's hand and dragged her across the street, not caring that it was too early in the day to drink, or that they were both well below the legal age. It was the day before Christmas Eve, and Varya was only in town for a couple more hours, and so it required a fitting celebration.

The pub was not as shabby as the girl had anticipated, as a matter of fact, it was quite pleasant, with various designs scattered across the walls, and the scent of alcohol mixed with that of pine, already sending a buzz through the girls' system.

They sat at a tall table in the corner, giggling to themselves, and wondering if any of the waiters would ask for some certificate that proved their legal age. However, as one of them came, they simply ordered two beers, the only thing on the menu that they knew.

"So," Della began, placing her hands on the table and giving Varya a sham glare, "What is it with you and Riddle?"

Varya drank from her glass, unsure how to explain once again that there was nothing between the two of them, and that the connection she felt to him was purely cerebral and out of intrusiveness. The girl felt that Tom Riddle understood her in a way nobody else at Hogwarts did, and, because of that, she often found herself disturbingly content in his proximity. Well, at least when he was not endangering or poisoning her.

"Nothing," she responded, then glowered when her friend slapped her over the shoulder.

"Nothing, my arse! You should have seen how the two of you looked at each other as you walked side by side yesterday. I pride myself in having a fantastic love radar— I can tell when two people have tension!"

Varya shuffled her feet, eyes trained on the ground, pupils slightly dilated, "Yes, is that why you are so terribly oblivious to the fact that Malfoy does not want anything to do with you?"

Half of her was joking, but the other half had meant it, as the girl had noticed the slight distaste in the boy's eyes whenever the muggle-born witch approached him.

"My father is in the army; I need male reassurance."

"That is disgusting—"

"— only slightly!" said Della, twirling a strand of chestnut hair in her fingers.

She bit her lips, a slight giggle falling past her lips, and Varya felt absolutely sickened, as she had a firm conviction on the Slytherin pure-blood, especially since he had been one of the students who had been least welcoming to her. However, she saw the rapture on the fifteen-year-old girl's face, and bit back her words of repulsion, chugging on her beer instead.

"Oh, wha' a pleasure to see you both 'ere, ladies!" came a shout from behind them, and they both turned to see the soldier they had met a few days ago heading their way, dressed in red attire. He had a Santa Claus hat on his head, and an outrageously scattered bogus beard.

"What brings you here, William?" inquired Varya, fluttering her eyelashes at him without even realizing. The boy flushed, then gazed away from her appearance, cheeks turning cherry-red. He scratched his head, then mumbled something incohesive. "What was that?"

"I am— as you mig't know, well — it always 'appens around this time, but—"

"Are you bringing gifts to children?" Della's lovely voice sounded, as she hopped off of the stool and beelined toward him, jabbing at the red sack he was dragging along. It seemed to carry small presents, probably donations from the army, as a few of them were young enough to have their old toys still around.

"Yes," the boy sniffed, thanking the girl silently for saving him from turning into a complete buffoon, "I am scheduled to go to a nearby orphanage and deliver those presents, ya' see? And well, decided to squeeze in some refreshments, all tame, o' course."

Della squealed, then grabbed Varya's hand and dragged her out of the booth, slapping a few muggle pounds on the table to pay for their beers, "Varya, let us go with him!"

The girl was not very sure, as she did not do well with children, and even more so with those who had been abandoned, having been one herself. Nevertheless, Della's eyes were playful, determined, and she found herself agreeing to the reckless plan, knowing very well she would feel uncomfortable.

The Ravenclaw prefect grabbed the muggle's hand as well, and lead them both out of the pub, ignoring their protests, "But, my drink—."

***

The wind wailed through the broken window of room number seven in Wool's orphanage, and Tom Riddle turned on his side, covering his ears with his dirty pillow as he tried to fade out the bothersome sound that had kept him up all night. When that did not work, he threw it violently at the wall across from him, although it was not that far, considering the size of his room.

It was confined, all right, and once he had started growing in inches, it had become even more so, to the point his head almost touched the ceiling, and if he laid out on the dusty floor, he could probably touch two opposite walls.

His rage grew, and he found himself fantasizing about tearing every wall in the building down, lightning it on fire, then cackling like an enraged arsonist as he watched the flame engulf the residency, along with every soul that haunted it. He would feel no remorse towards the lost lives, only satisfaction, and he would hear their hellish screams of agony, flames consuming their corporal at an alarming rate.

Tom could not do that, though, at least not until he got his plan running, and perhaps, graduated Hogwarts. After the boy would ascend to power, supported by many descendants of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, he would be unreachable, well above the wizarding law, and nobody would care for the massacre.

He rubbed his temples, enjoying the dull throb of insomnia, the way his eyes tinged with every ray that passed his drawn curtains, and he slowly got up, stretching and almost touching one of his walls. He let out a small yawn, then cracked his neck, and slipped on his shoes groggily.

It was well past noon, and yet he had spent all day in bed, not bothering to mingle with the repulsive muggle children in his building. They stared at him with repulsion that made his blood boil, and in his sleep-deprived state, he feared that he might have cast an unforgivable curse toward them.

Would not be a loss, who would miss them? He thought, a sneer covering his face.

Tom headed to the small desk that he had in the corner of his unit, covered in cryptic papers, all of them codded with a secret sigil that only his knights knew how to decipher, and as he picked up a letter, he let a finger skim over the beautiful wax stamp that read R.R in cursive writing. He opened it with a small knife he had hidden in the floor panels, knowing very well that the Matron did not allow him to keep any weapons.

As if he needed them.

He skimmed over the information in the letter, humming to himself as he turned and sat on his bed, back slumped forward and hand gripping at his chin.

_Riddle,_

_I collected all of the names we needed, but we mustn't be in a rush with them; otherwise, we might find it hard to discover the location of the items without raising suspicion. Some of them have declined attendance, as you might have expected, but do not worry, for I will have my parents reach out to them._

_Besides this matter, I have arranged the rooms, and have set apart a lounge for us to discuss important business, charms already in place. Selwyn says she has her ingredients in place if needed, but I expect Petrov will handle the interrogation._

_Speaking of the witch, Nott and I have looked into her records, and there is no mention of Dumbledore knowing her family, but I have found something else that is quite interesting. I should not mention it through a letter, though, as it is sensitive information._

_We await your arrival,_

_Renold Rosier_

Tom bit his cheek at the last paragraph, then put the letter back on his desk. He had expected Varya's story to be a lie, her open elaboration, and abundant details giving her away, but he had let her believe otherwise, as he needed her in place for his plan to work.

He did not trust her, neither did the rest of the Slytherins, but he needed her skill and her infamous name; otherwise, he might as well give up on finding the location of everything he needed. The advantage of having a Petrov witch on your side was that, in the European court, it was as if bringing a Malfoy back from the dead, and with half of the attendees expecting the line to have perished, it would surely stir a bit of trouble.

The kind of distraction that Tom Riddle needed.

A soft knock sounded on his door, and his gaze snapped to it. Stamping his feet, he made his way to it and swung it open, revealing the gray face of the Matron on the other side. Oh, how he wanted to shred that smug smirk off of her face, boil it off even, and watched her choke on the heated water.

"Yes?" he inquired, voice so tedious it should have startled the elderly lady. Yet, she had grown so accustomed to the teenager's freak behavior that she did not bother to hide her displeasure, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him out of the room.

"Have I not told you to come to la salle de séjour, you impertinent child?" she said, French accent irking his ears, and then she slapped the boy over the head, pushing him to walk ahead, and Tom had to keep himself from butchering her right then and there. She would be the first to decay six feet buried when he was out of here.

Tom was pushed into the main salon, and he let out a muffled grunt as he watched the Matron call on to the children to gather around the fire, saying they were in for a surprise. The older boy rolled his eyes, watching over the animated faces, and he blasphemed whatever God had stuck him with such mindless baboons.

He must have been the oldest in there, as it was uncommon for a boy his age not to be adopted early on, but the war had been unforgiving on the orphanage, and no mother would adopt when the husband was drafted off to war. Besides, his early hooligan behavior had not earned him any brownie points with the leadership, as he had managed to harass multiple children that had annoyed him, and that meant that he was brought in to less and less family meetings, until the Matron had just given up on him, hiding him upstairs whenever there was interest from a new couple.

A well-known fragrance filled the room, so enchanting and heavy, and his body unconsciously relaxed, mind clearing from the violence that had swelled in his muscles, and he slumped against the wall, mindlessly searching the room for the source of the scent.

It was her laugh that he heard first, so pitched and obnoxious that he recognized it immediately as it filled the opening, resonating from the dull walls of the orphanage like a melodious tinkle, and then she walked in through the central door, arms linked with her mudblood friend, and exuberant eyes cast on an awfully young pretense Santa Claus.

Her combed obsidian hair was curled softly, falling in waves over her shoulders, and her smile was more luminous than Tom had ever seen it, which made the boy clump his eyebrows together. Her etiolated body paraded itself across the room, dressed in a fine coat and polished dark boots. She had placed a small, rouge bow on top of her neat hair, contrasting against her locks.

Tom looked down at his attire and recoiled, as he had not had time to change out of his outrageously worn sleepwear. Out of his school uniform, he was painfully aware of his social status, and he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, suddenly self-conscious. Without the magic of Hogwarts that surrounded him, his wand tightly pressed against his thigh, he did not look like a mighty wizard that many would fear.

So he stepped back into the obscurations, watching from the corner as the girl dawdled behind her friend and the boy Tom did not know, shifting her weight from leg to leg and biting her lip anxiously. She looked terribly uncomfortable but kept giving the other two reassuring smiles as they passed down small gifts.

"Where is Tom?" questioned Mrs. Cole, and Riddle felt the need to hex her eyes out of their sockets when he saw Varya blench, bother creasing her face. Then, she loosened, almost as if a summer cloud had passed over her being for the haziest moment.

A child shrieked, then pointed to the wall Tom was slumped against, "He is right 'ere, ma'am!"

Tom had never wanted to fracture Billy Stub's skull open more, and the thought of garrotting the boy's rabbit from one of the building's rafters traversed his mind— stupid, sickening pet. It would make him weep for days certainly, and he would make sure the boy would see it before the Matron would be able to take it down.

"Riddle?" breathed Varya, and he looked askance at her as she neared him with cautious strides, hesitant if it was truly the wizard. Della was still conversing with the boy, not even regarding as her friend slipped into the nearby corridor, following the phantom umbra of Tom Riddle.

He marched down the hallway, neglecting her footsteps behind him until he reached his room, and then he opened the door. Tom stepped inside, and studied Varya's advancing figure as it crossed the dreary hallway.

"So, it is you," she spoke as she moved into his room, eyes taking in the shoebox-size, but if she was nauseated by it, the girl disguised it well. Tom slammed the door.

"What are you doing here?" he groused as he observed the girl soar her eyes over his heap of letters, eyebrows fastening together at the fragmentary markings on the paper. She surely recognized the sigil, but could not understand the words.

"I came with Della and William," she returned, shifting her absolute attention to the boy. In the tattered garments, with the untidy hair, he looked almost defenseless, and it weakened her heart in a way she did not fancy.

"Is that the ooaf's name?" he derided as he shifted on his feet, unsure of where to stand, so he held his rigorous stance.

"He is a soldier, Riddle."

"A muggle, nonetheless, scum."

Her judgmental eyes scrutinized him, and she approached him nonchalantly, positioning herself right in his view. Varya tipped her head, and studied at the man in front of her, standing in the bedroom had grown up in, and abruptly queried if Tom Riddle had always been a insidious monster, or if he had been forced to become one.

"Was your mother a witch?" she challenged, suddenly heading to his bed and plopping herself on it, disregarding the way the defective springs jabbed at her back, and the way the breeze of the cracked glass hit right against her left ear. "Because Riddle is a common muggle name, as I have said before."

His jaw tensed, and his eyes divulged aggravation beyond mild irritation. So she was correct, then, and the boy was not proud of it.

"What was her name?" she inquired, fixating her gaze on him.

Tom remained soundless for a few moments, before he heard himself speak without even realizing, "Merope."

"Merope Riddle," Varya singsonged, eyes trailing the fissures in the ceiling. "Lovely name."

"Her last name was not Riddle," Tom spluttered, feeling his fists clench behind his back as the girl almost ridiculed him with her simper, provoking him with her callous observations. "And she was weak."

"So, are you not only a muggle, but also a bastard?"

She cackled as the wand thumped her throat, Tom's fiery eyes trained on her with brutality, and she felt the tip press against one of her pressure points, making her pants come in raspier. Varya peered at him, catastrophe floating in her eyes, and knew that she had finally gotten a proper reaction out of him. His vanity was hurt, and the boy was raging, envisioning all of the ways he could annihilate her on the spot.

"Easy, Riddle," she played with fire, enunciating his name like a jeer, but she had grown exhausted of his eternal manipulation, and when she had read the message that Rosier had sent him, her blood had boiled with indignation.

He was so tight-lipped, and he did not trust her at all, which was ingenious in its reasoning, but tedious for the girl that had been trying to gain his favor for so long, to the point where it was pushing her to the edge of insanity. Varya felt foolishly connected to the boy; she was inquisitive about his purposes, and frequently found herself musing about approaches to get him to open up to her.

Even now, as he was gazing at her with a lethal glower, she felt her heart sweep with confusion at his closeness, something so unfamiliar she could not place, and had not even felt in Icarus' proximity despite his relentless devotion.

So how had Tom Riddle messed with her mind so horribly? Why was it that despite his consistent manipulation and impassiveness, she pursued him around and served his orders?

"You are walking on thin ice, Petrov, and I would not want your body to go cold as you sink," he susurrated, voice so serpentine it almost sounded like a snake's hiss.

"Do not underestimate my power, Riddle."

"Maybe once you prove you have any power at all, I will stop."

They gaped at each other, Tom standing in front of the bed, tilting her chin up with the wand, and her sitting on the edge, looking up at him with conviction.

"And how do I go at doing that?" she requested, gently moving his wand from her neck, and releasing a breath she did not know she was holding.

Tom smirked, then kneeled before her, so that they were face to face, eye to eye, and his character transformed into something roguish as he regarded her, thinking of all of the ways he could taint her innocence. He hummed, then instructed her to wait for him as he stepped out of the room, leaving her to question what he was up to.

She took this as an opportunity to snoop around, and promptly went back to the desk, fingers going through multiple encoded messages. The cipher used a mixture of Slavic alphabet and runes, something the boy should have expected that she would be able to crack, but she had to give it to him— it was brilliant. He was not using the alphabet in a way that would make sense to many, as he was not spelling out Russian words, but rather, he was using the alphabet to spell out runes, that would then be translated to English. Perhaps, Varya would not have decoded it had she not done the same thing for certain writings of hers ages ago.

They had caught her in a lie, and Varya doubted how long it would take before the boy tried rereading her mind, or tortured the information out of her. That made her uneasy, and she knew that she had to act fast, cover it up somehow, because Tom Riddle detested Albus Dumbledore— he would go to great lengths to uncover the truth.

Then, she wondered about the last paragraph in Rosier's letter— what had they found about her past? Indeed, there were more than enough enigmas that the girl was hiding, but nothing that they would find so impressive that they would need to discuss in private. Varya had the upper hand, for now, she knew something that she should not have, but if she did not act quickly, it would all be for nothing.

Tom Riddle's footsteps reverberated in the corridor, and the girl made her way back to the bed, posing to be interested in the broken window. Why did the boy not repair it, especially since he was able to use magic? Perhaps, he did not care all that much, or he did not want to be questioned on how he had repaired it.

Tom opened the door, and when Varya glanced at him, her eyes enlarged at the fleecy white rabbit that he was carrying. He let it bounce around the room, looking at it with revulsion, then turned her face to her.

"I want you to use the unforgivable curses on it."

Varya choked, then sat up straight, appalled at the thought. Yes, Tom Riddle was a man that cared for no being, and yet he would not torture things just for the mere pleasure, right?

"Riddle, you have gone mad," she gulped, walking up to him slowly, then glimpsed at the rabbit.

"Quite the contrary, my dear, consider it as an act of devotion toward me," he responded, bowing his face in until it was only a few inches away from hers. He used his hand to grab at her face forcibly, one thumb on her cheek, the rest of his palm on another, and he made Varya gape at him. When his eyes met hers, he saw the turmoil inside, but also a form of sensitivity that he had never seen on anyone else, and he grimaced as he felt something pull at his abdomen. "Do as I say, and you will achieve things you had never dreamt of."

It was a murmur of seduction and power, it enthralled the girl ultimately, and when she inhaled, Varya felt rose thorns scarifying her insides. Riddle made her forget about everything else; he was a demonic presence, so intriguing and immoral. She craved it to let it ravage her, that was how potent it was, and she fretted that if she submersed herself in his allure, she might completely give up her morals.

Her mind fogged over, almost as if something else had taken the wheel of her control, and at that moment she did not care about anything else except the temptation of the unforgivable curses.

The girl swallowed— it took her whole being to turn away from the boy's mesmeric gaze and study the animal that had started chewing on Tom's bedsheets. When she raised her wand, she felt no repentance, nothing but the warmth radiating off of Tom's body.

" _Crucio_."

The squealing was revolting, and she observed the animal trash around in misery, unaware of why every nerve in its body was fully awake, responsive, and detecting injury. Its shrieks filled the bedroom, so much so that the boy cast a silencing charm around his chamber, and Varya watched as the rabbit tried to squirm underneath the bed, its legs rearranging at grotesque angles. She could not take her eyes off of it; she watched it suffer, and yet she did not feel an ounce of fright or fault as she had with the Therestral.

There was an emptiness in her, something that she had not felt before, and it was almost as if her soul had died right then and there, and every emotion she had ever felt left her body. Was this what Tom Riddle felt when he committed atrocious acts?

She lifted her wand again, her lips moving gently as she enunciated her next curse. " _Avada Kedavra_."

The rabbit stopped moving, lifeless, with half of its body underneath Tom's bed, and its legs dangling outside. The fur was white, so chaste, and yet it had had its life stolen away from it without much choice. She had not killed it to end its suffering, but rather to feel the sick pleasure of being able to take away a life.

Varya swallowed firmly, and tried to hinder her mind from whirling at high speeds, her thoughts mayhem. She mopped the sweat off of her forehead, and let her wand-holding hand fall by her side with a tremble. Was this the same person that had cracked in the forest?

Surely, she had killed small animals before, at Scholomace, she had done dark spells, and yet never like this. Never only for the sake of doing it, over having power over another being.

Varya felt Tom's ghostly touch on her throat as he moved her hair away from her nape, fingers trailing just above the necklace's chain. She stiffened, then felt his breath come closer to it, until its warmth made the hair on the back of her neck rise, and then Tom placed a caustic hand on her shoulder, trailing it up until it reached her chin. He turned her face toward him, and Varya met a typhoon of Egyptian azure, infused with the coldness of the night. She drew in a sharp breath, soothing the drumming in her chest.

"Excellent, little witch," he purred, his voice below a rasp.

Then, he took a step back, scowling at the pitiful corpse in his room. He was to hang it on a raft, then watch wretched Billy Stub fret his heart out for his wretched excuse of a companion. He went, grabbed it by its legs, and threw it on his bed as he conjured a tight rope around his neck. A symbolic gesture— anyone who dared oppose the future Dark Lord would pay for their disobedience, and he would take everything they cherished.

Varya Petrov was still stiffened in her spot as she fought her mind, the shadows that had begun surging in the boundaries of her vision, scratching at the entrance of her soul, begging to be let in. She shook her head rapidly, hands going to her temples, then took a few steps back as she tried to regain composure. What had she just done?

Tom gave her a glance, eyes studying every inch of her profile, "I suppose I will see you tomorrow at the Rosier Manor."

He stepped outside, dragging the rabbit behind him, and slammed the door, leaving Varya's soul to crumble on his floor. The girl raised a trembling hand to her neck, clinging onto the locket as if it was the last thing keeping her sane. At least she had been brave enough not to give Tom Riddle the necklace.


	28. chapter twenty-six

Della's embrace was tender as she almost smothered Varya Petrov on platform seven at the King's Cross station, telling her that she had enjoyed spending so much time together, and to make sure to send an owl as soon as possible. Varya detached herself from the girl, giving her a sincere smile, then picked up her luggage. She waved to her friend one last time, before stepping on to the train that would take her to Paris, and eventually, to the Rosier establishment.

The train was much like the Hogwarts express, fueled by magic rather than an engine, and it strode over the vast oceans, connecting the British capital to French territories. It was ingenious, really, and many wizards frequented it, not wanting to rely on the troublesome Floo Network. It was much faster than the Night Ferry, although more expensive, but Varya had a fear of the ocean, and she could not bring herself to step on a boat.

She walked along the corridor, her fashioned skirt reaching just below her knees, and her black boots clicking against the floor. Her heart was cloudy, as she had enjoyed her time at the Beauchamp house, and she knew that whatever her future reserved for the next week, it would be much direr.

Varya opened one of the compartments, and dragged her satchel in, setting it against one of the leather seats. She took off her scarf, then her gloves, and patted her frozen face to heat it up. The December blow had cracked her skin a bit, and she sighed at the way her bones ached. The train's inside resembled the Hogwarts' Express even more, and she felt a tug at her heart, wishing she could return to her school soon.

She had barely slept, mind still on what had occurred the previous night, and she did not know what had alarmed her more— Tom's proximity or the grievous squeals of the pet she had tortured and killed. Varya was nauseated with her actions, especially when she realized how natural it had been for her to perform such atrocious acts.

It should not have been that easy, she should have fought against it, but a part of her had been curious as to what the spells would feel like, how their darkness would pulsate through her.

 _Terrifying_ , she thought, _but enchanting_.

Now, she understood why so many wizards fell prey to their temptation, and although she had cast many dark spells along her life, there was something so gruesome and shattering about murdering a creature with the killing spell that felt almost empowering.

And yet, the girl could not help but be troubled with herself. At Scholomace, they had always been taught how to communicate and appreciate animals, perhaps, even more so than humans, and yet four months around Tom Riddle had made her forget everything.

She did not understand what was happening to her mind, to her magic, it felt as if she was constantly switching between good and bad, almost as if there were two parts inside of her at conflict. Truly, Varya had never felt more lost, and she did not like what she was becoming while at Hogwarts.

And she had no control over it, was the thing. It was almost as if whenever she was around Tom, he completely took charge of her soul, and had it do its bidding. It was toxic, and yet she could not step away from it.

There was a rap on the door of her compartment, and Varya shifted swiftly to meet the profile of Icarus Lestrange, who was beaming at her as brightly as ever. She opened the door and let him pass the threshold. His bags were trailing behind him, enchanted as always, as no Sacred Twenty-Eight heir would do something as mundane as carrying his own trunks. They flew above their heads, settling in their desired places.

"What a splendid surprise," he mused, as he sat down on one of the seats across from her, "just the person I was so eager to see. Would it be ridiculous to say that your absence left my soul a little shriveled?"

His joke passed right by Varya, who continued to stare at the boy with a passive face, "Yes, it would be incredibly ridiculous considering you have been avoiding me."

Icarus smirked, then clicked his tongue against the roof, "I have not been avoiding you, my dear, but there are times when a certain friend of mine likes to assign me ludicrous tasks, and the timing always seems to be unfortunate."

Varya cleared her throat, trying to compose herself at his allusion to Tom Riddle. It was already frustrating to be in each of their presence; the last thing she needed was for them to start talking about each other with her. There was some fault crawling its way up her throat, and under Icarus' gaze, she felt dirty, almost as if she had done something terrible to him.

But her fascination with Tom Riddle was purely platonic, was it not? The electrifying sensation of being on the brink of death in the presence of a sociopath, the alluring pull of macabre and monstrosity.

"So, no hard feelings?" she quipped, trying to lighten the mood, but something in the boy's face stirred, and he peered at her with a gaze that cut her breath. He sighed, then gave her a soft, melancholic simper. Icarus thought about his words carefully, and considered the situation he had found himself in. He was smitten for her because there was something so exquisite and ambiguous that had arrived with her appearance. Somewhere along the way, he had found himself cherishing every moment spent with her, every hand placed on her back, and the soft touch of her skin.

Despite everyone he knew warning him against falling for Varya Petrov, he had found his heart plummeting directly in her hands, and now it belonged only to her.

"Feelings? Perhaps, but never the bad sort for you, Varya."

There it was, the words that Varya was not sure she wanted to hear, a confession with a deeper meaning. She had expected it, to a certain degree, and yet it still rendered her speechless. His feelings were out, and like Pandora's box, there was no way to stuff them back inside, and something about that terrified the girl. Perhaps, if they had been muttered a few weeks back, when he was the only person that paid her mind, she would have swooned and fallen for them, but now, her connections to other people had deepened—specifically, one with a certain Slytherin prefect.

As a friend and as a man, she admired Icarus, and he had been the first boy to give her butterflies, to have her wonder if desire was a possibility for her. Varya should have responded, and perhaps, admitted that he was not indifferent to her, but when she tried to open her mouth and tell him, no words came out, almost as if something was stopping her.

The boy noticed her silence, and the hurt that flashed across his face was evident, but he tried to mask it, just as he always did, and play the role that had been assigned to him— the trickster, the comedic relief of the group, someone who was always in a cheerful disposition, and never had any profound emotions to him.

And, for the most part, that had been true, as Icarus Lestrange had spent most of his adolescence chasing the rush of adrenaline, living like tomorrow was not guaranteed, and then, a girl appeared in his life. A girl that, unbeknownst to him, would completely change his view on life and its meaning. He wanted to court her, awe her with his practical anecdotes and humorous temperament, and then settle down if time was good with him. Yes, they were young, and he had known her for a few months, but to someone like him, who lived in the present, there was no use for planning or contemplating. There was only now, and _now_ , he wanted _her_.

"Icarus," she began, tentative, almost as if feeling out his reaction, but the boy composed himself and shot her a wink, completely shutting down the cascade of emotion that had fallen on him. That was his burden, and she did not have to suffer through it.

"All good, Petrov," he breathed, then threw his feet on the couch, back resting against the compartment's wall, "Take your time, I will be here."

Varya knew that he meant it, and that was what terrified her the most, because she was not only afraid to love, but also to be loved. In her mind, earning someone's affection meant that you were important to them and that they valued their perception of you, but the girl was not sure how well Icarus truly knew her, and she was scared of shattering his impression. If he ever hated her, she knew she could not live with herself, because the boy was a gem, and he deserved to be with someone that could see his shine.

Here she was yet again, with another conflict, almost as if her personality had been split right in the middle, and the two sides clashed against each other ferociously, much like the currents of an ocean pulling her in different directions.

"You are my date for the ball," she said, and that was enough for now, the most she could do to share his affection, the most she could say. Moreover, even if it was nothing compared to his words, they smoothened the boy's aching heart, and he managed to give her a sincere smile. He would always be there for her, despite all.

"Yes, the ball— which reminds me, is it true that you have no prior experience of dancing? Pitiful, such a young lady and yet so little training in socializing," he said, changing the topic to something less serious. Then, he jumped up and extended a hand to her. "Do me the honor, miss?"

Varya giggled, a sense of playfulness spreading through her, and she accepted his hand. He hoisted her up, then pulled her flush against his chest, one hand sneaking to her waist, and the girl blushed madly, avoiding his gaze. He started humming quietly, a song that she was not familiar with, but it was soft, and his timbre made it entrancing.

It was moments like this when she could see herself loving him, when Varya could think of Icarus and picture a life away from Hogwarts, from the darkness, from Tom Riddle. But it was nothing more than that— a dream. And each morning brought back the painful feeling of her reality, where she had been burdened with the task of stopping something terrible.

They swayed in the middle of the moving train, paying no mind to the passengers that stole quick glances through the compartment window, squealing at the two teenagers experiencing the small sparks of romance on their way to Paris.

Varya's mind drifted to porcelain features, dark eyelashes, and azure eyes, and she found herself wondering if Riddle had ever danced with someone like this, if he had ever let a woman get so close to his own body.

She should not have been thinking of the Slytherin prefect at that moment, especially after what he had done, and yet his peculiar behavior was exactly what made him such an interesting object to analyze.

Icarus twirled her, and Varya's skirts caught in her legs, almost sending her to the ground, but he grabbed her waist and straightened her back up as he threw his head back in a hearty laugh. Varya smiled, although her cheeks were flamed from embarrassment, and watch the traces of joy invade his face.

It was a sight — seeing one of Riddle's men so alive with happiness, dancing in the middle of the train with no worry of what was to come, and she let herself wonder what would become of Icarus Lestrange if Tom rose to power. Would he follow him, wreak havoc on everything, be the general that Tom expected him to be? Would he bloody hills in battle, his wand exhausted from the corpses that would fall in his path, eyes maddened with anger? Furthermore, if he ever had kids, would they devote themselves to the dark wizard, just as he had, and continue his empire?

It was hard to imagine the lively boy in such situations, but Varya had seen the future, and she knew that if she did not change fate, that would be how he would end up. That, or dead. So at that moment, as she watched the mischievous Icarus Lestrange light up like the night sky in a thunderstorm, she made a vow— she would do anything in her power to stop Tom Riddle from becoming the monster he was destined to be, and she would save every one of his followers from their tragic fate, no matter the cost. They would all live, they would smile, they would enjoy the world for all it has to offer, and they would grow old with their families.

***

Halfway through her ride, the two students were sprawled on the train's floor in an intense card game, when they felt the train slow down to a stop, its wheels screeching against the railroad. Varya frowned and shot Icarus a look of dismay, but the boy only shrugged, trying to peek at her card deck.

The girl got up leisurely, dismissing the game, and glanced out of the window into the snowstorm that had taken over the realm. They had reached land, it seemed, but Paris was still a few hours away, and yet the train had stopped its journey in an obscure valley, where trees lined the horizon, and the wind howled as it glided through them. The scenery was stagnant, and nothing moved across her vision, almost as if the world had stilled in momentary terror.

Goosebump covered her skin, and a sense of tremendous stress permeated her whole being. There it was again, the spirit of her darkness pulling at the edges, alert and swarming, almost like a sounding drum. No, something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

"Varya? What happened?" Icarus was by her side in a matter of seconds, and her hand seized his shirt subconsciously, pulling at it in a frenzy. His arms went around her waist, and he spun her to face him. A small gasp went past his lips when he saw the mortified look on her features, and the perspiration that had begun pooling on her eyebrows, the way her eyelashes fluttered rapidly, almost as if she was disoriented.

"I do not know," she responded rapidly, but the feeling of horror grew exponentially, and she gulped harshly as she looked around in a stupor. Something was amiss. "I feel— My heart is hammering, and my guts are twisting, I feel as if every second now I will be struck down by lightning."

"Varya, calm down," the boy tried, but she squirmed in his grasp and broke free, pacing to the hanger that stood above one of the seats, and searching her coat's pockets for her wand. She pulled it out.

The train's lights flickered, then everything went dark. They sat in reticence, trying to adjust their eyes to the blackened surroundings, and Varya felt Icarus' hand reach out blindly to her, and pull her in his arms. The only sound they could hear was the incensed wind, hitting the windows harshly, making them outcry, and the impatient drum of their synced hearts. There were no howling owls, no crickets of the night playing melodious tones, almost as if everything in a radius of a few miles had perished.

Something splattered against the window, and Varya spun around in fright, looking at the blood that was now trickling from it, covering the scenery before her in a dark carmine. She pressed her face against the window, and saw the raven that had struck the glass, slowly twitching in agony on the ground. Its wing was twisted at an odd angle, and a bone had protruded its skin. Her heart twisted, and she felt the need to end the bird's suffering, but her hand did not move as she watched the last thread of life snap.

Its craw resonated through the twilight, a dark omen of death and horror, and the girl raised her eyes to the sky, where hundreds of other birds were swirling, their maddened shrieks rippling through the blizzard. It was a hurricane of darkened wings, an apocalyptic vision of biblical proportions, and the heavens had turned into a wave of clashing birds, almost undulating as they soared around. A few of them started plummeting to the ground, some even hitting the train, and wherever they landed, it was a mess of dark feathers and blood splattered against sinless snow.

"What in Satan's name?" she whimpered, her voice quivering with apprehension, and she turned to look at Icarus, who was just as appalled as her. His eyes carried distress that she had never seen on the boy, and his chest moved up and down at a brisk tempo.

"Is this your doing?" he inquired, pointing toward the deceased birds that were slowly covering the snowed fauna. He had started associating her with death.

"No," she gasped, although a part of her told her it could have been, as ravens had always been her favored bird, and recently, she had been surrounded by the passing of creatures. It was almost as if she could not escape it. Or, perhaps, death could not avoid her.

The train was still soundless— the two wizards shared a look before casting a _Lumos_ spell and heading toward the door. As soon as they stepped in the corridor, Varya's skin was hit by an undulation of cold and absolute terror, and her eyes watered in fright, although she was unsure why her body was reacting that way. There was something in the shadows, although everything stood still, and she felt watched, almost as if something was ready to pounce. It could have been a whisper of fear, an umbra of doubt.

Varya waved her wand around, and its light caught something slumped against the train's wall, legs sprawled out in front, and even from afar, she could sense the putrid odor of death. She approached the body, Icarus a few steps in front of her, and when they were close enough, she bit back something between a shriek and a cry that threatened to spill out.

A woman was leaning against the wall — a very lifeless, ripped to shreds woman, and her eyes were open in paralyzed torment, mouth agape in a frozen wail. Her intestines had been tarnished, flung against the walls, splattered across the floor in a haze of liquids that could no longer be distinguished. One of her limps had been torn off, exposing the amalgam of flesh and bones beneath her ashen skin, and the blood was still dripping to the floor in sluggish, disturbing drops. It was an atrocious sight, something so medieval in nature it was almost surreal.

Icarus and Varya shared another look, both disturbed by how composed the other was, but it was not their first time seeing a dead body, and it surely would not be their last. As the witch opened her mouth, the boy raised a finger to his lips, a silent plea of silence, then pointed to the fresh blood.

Whatever it was that had annihilated the woman, it had done so recently, and that caused a wave of nausea to overtake the young woman, as the realization hit her. This lady had been killed before the train had even stopped, and somehow, neither of them had heard a thing. Even more so, the creature — because yes, this was no doing of a man — had been just outside their compartment, and had probably gazed in at their game, waiting to pounce. However, the woman, perhaps, had distracted it. It had been running rampant in the wagon, moving back and forth around their window, and it could have been so close to ending them both.

Then, Varya did something out of despair; she broke down the barriers of her mind, an open invitation for Icarus to gaze in, to communicate while maintaining their muteness. She passed on a thought to him, and the boy's eyes widened as he heard her.

 _This was the work of a beast_ , she thought out to him, her wand pointing at the way the woman's meat had been ripped off of her body, a ligament slowly dangling in the air.

Icarus nodded; it _has to be close, the blood is still fresh_.

Varya looked around, eyes trailing their surroundings, then she caught sight of something unusual on the floor. Bloodied hoove marks. She pointed toward the open door that connected to the next compartment; it _headed that way._

They both moved in unison, but deliberately, trying to make as little fanfare as possible and not divulge their location. The next compartment was worse than the previous one, with multiple witches and wizards scattered over the couches, dead. Some of them had missing limbs, or masses of their faces ripped apart, and so whatever creature it was, it probably feasted on human flesh.

 _It moves fast,_ Icarus sent her, _it went through four adults before any could even raise a wand to stop it._

 _That is terrifying_ , answered Varya. _The back door is open, I think, there is a breeze going through the wagon, let us head there, and stay close._

They reached the door, and sure enough, it was wide open, leading into the misty night. Before they stepped out, however, Varya grabbed Icarus' hand and pulled him close, then put something in his hand.

 _A coin?_ he asked, confused.

 _I charmed it; it should protect you against whatever darkness is out there, and if it gets too close, toss it in the air, and it will help you teleport out of its grasp. I do not have time to do anything more, but it might help you_ , she thought quickly, eyes scanning the outdoors with dread.

Icarus nodded, then he stepped outside, the girl right behind him, still holding his hand. He twirled his wand in his hand, shutting off its light, then gripping it in a position he often used for battle. Varya dismissed her light as well, then put her wand in her pocket, knowing that she worked better without it.

The wind wailed in the duskiness, and it sent her locks fluttering in all directions, slightly covering her view. It was cold, and dreadful, and the stink of deceased birds had started imprinting in the atmosphere. They walked around their corpses, but it was hard to avoid all of them, and Varya winced as she felt a bone crack underneath her shoe, covering it in murky blood.

Then, she heard it.

It sounded almost like a howl, something between a goat and a rapacious brute, and it resonated through the air, reverberating in the night. Varya recognized it promptly, and if she had been alarmed before, now, she was utterly terrified. The Drekavac's screech could be heard for miles, so animalistic it rivaled the lamentations of Hell.

Varya glanced at Icarus, wondering if it was best he stay in the train, or if he should come with her so that she could watch over him. The boy had grown uneasy, as the distress on his face had started becoming more potent.

 _It is a Drekavac, a demonic creature of the night, and I cannot phantom how it has reached French land, because it mostly wanders around Slavic forests,_ she explained, trying to ease him, but the information only agitated him more. _It is exceptionally bloodthirsty, with a craving that cannot subdue, and unless we kill it, it will rip everyone on that train to shreds._

Icarus was about to answer, tell her that they should apparate somewhere else, leave the train to its faith, but he never managed to, as the creature pounced him out of nowhere, shredding at his face with maddened hunger, trying to tear him to bits. A chunk of skin flew into the snow, terrifying the girl, and the blood oozed as the creature bit into the boy's cheek and pulled at his flesh.

"No!" shrieked Varya, and grabbed the Drekavac by its neck, sending it across the field and letting him hit a tree. She looked at Icarus' crimson figure, then turned towards the monster, watching as it started running in their direction again.

The Drekavac was an incubus, and although most books described it as a deformed person, with skin withered and stretched over its bones, there was nothing human to the creature, as it ran on all fours and shrieked with savageness. Its ears were flat against its naked head, eye sockets empty, and ashen skin flashed in the luminescence of the moon, the look of a corpse.

Maddened creature that it was, with joints so mobile it swung its limbs in directions that no human would be capable of, and its sharp teeth flashed as it thundered into the night, a hail of battle. A mouth that could never be satiated, it opened to the point its tongue hung, and despite feasting on more than five people already, it was so famished it could have ravaged a village.

Just as it made another jump towards the girl, Varya sent out a blast of fire at it, enveloping it in a tornado of black flames, letting them ripple at its skin. It fell to the ground, trashing in agony, enraged, then rolled on its back. It got up, this time with legs bend backward, and it started crawling at her with its stomach facing up, neck bent to look at her with voracious eyes.

Icarus fluttered his eyes, moaning in anguish as he felt his own blood pool in his nose and mouth, and he knew the dammed thing had torn off a good piece of his cheek, face pulsating in agony. He had no time for that, however, as he saw it head to Varya, and he gripped his wand, sending a powerful blast its way.

" _Avada Kedavra_!"

The curse hit the being, and it sent it flying backward once again, barrelling at the ground. Only for a few seconds, though, as it slowly got up again on its crushed members, and started making its way back to the two sorcerers with more wrath than before.

"Bloody hell, Lestrange, it is already dead! What is that curse going to do?"

Icarus felt Varya grip his hand and pull at him as she started running through the snow and into the woods, his vision getting blurrier with each second, clouded with red and spots. His legs were growing weaker as his blood pressure decreased, and he felt the metallic liquid soak his clothes. He did not have much time left, not with the way he was bleeding out, and he felt his ankle twist as it got caught in some twigs.

"Varya," he wheezed, shooting her a desperate glance as they ran through the trees, hearing the creature approach rapidly. "I cannot run for much longer."

The girl stopped and shot him a hopeless look, then glanced past his shoulder, where the creature was still trailing them. They could not outrun it endlessly, and the demon was so malicious that it never gave its prey up; it always chased it until it drove it mad. Varya seized Icarus' chin, looking at how it had almost been clawed off, and pushed him to the ground, against a tree.

"Icarus," she said, cupping his face and forcing his exhausted eyes to look at her, "use the fucking coin if it gets near you."

With that, she was gone, running straight at the demon, and Icarus fell to his side as he reached out to her. Varya ran until there were only a few meters between her and the beast, then sent a powerful shockwave through the woods, bombarding it once again.

It screeched, landed on its back, then got up.

"Bloody hell," she blasphemed, trying to think quickly and remember the paragraphs she had studied while at the academy. She knew that it was scared of light and hounds, but could not remember anything that genuinely killed the deathly devil. Her only option was sending it back to Hell, but with so little time, she did not know if she could chant the incantation fast enough.

She gripped at her hair, cursing the skies for sending her this omen of death, then grabbed the knife that she always carried with her, and cut her palm deeply. Her incantation was swift, rushed, and some of her words were jumbled, but she had no time as the figure approached.

" _Mitte ad daemonium ad infernum. Adolebitque illud_ ," she chanted, painting a soul eater sigil with her blood. It was getting closer; she had no time; she had to hurry. " _Mitte ad inferos, Hoc est iens ut daemonium moriar._ "

She raised her eyes, her ghostly, white eyes, as the magic pulsed through her, the blood sigil glowing the same color as the pits of Hell. Her locks floated around her in turbulent motion; her eyes fell in a poisonous glower as her speech grew guttural, almost as if possessed. She felt it once again, the smokey veil of her sorcery, the darkness that had pulsated in her blood since the day she had been born. Varya was no ordinary witch, and her magic was as terrible as the creature she was trying to banish.

Just as the Drekavac flew in the air, its claws extended to gut her, the symbol captured the beast, imprisoning it in its grasp.

Then, it ignited up with the flames of Hell, iniquitous and disastrous— the demon's screech filled the forsaken forest, and it turned to ash, before vanishing altogether. In its place remained nothing but smoke, and the scent of burned bones and flesh filled the forest.

Varya fell to her knees and wheezed, the magic slipping out of her, and she panted as her eyes converged on the dried blood in the snow, where she had drawn the soul eater symbol, the only incantation known to banish demons back to Hell. It was darker than usual, almost too coagulated to be healthy, and there was a weird odor to it.

She slowly got up, ignoring the way her figure still vibrated, adrenaline starting to rush out, and ran back to where she had left Icarus. The boy was still conscious, although barely, and his weak hand flew out to her immediately. He had seen her witchcraft, he had felt its sinister power as it resonated through the woods, and his heart had leaped in his cavity.

"You are a vicious witch, Varya," he said, timbre so hoarse it pained the girl, and his eyelids started to flutter shut. She placed her hand on his cheek, quickly sealing the wound, then conjured some water for him to drink, although the boy barely managed to part his lips.

She hauled his body up, ignoring the way his weight almost crushed her, and they started making their way out of the forest and back to the train, dreading the explanations they would have to give. Alas, they were safe, for now, and that is what mattered.


	29. chapter twenty-seven

As soon as they had reached the train, Varya had been swarmed by Ministry officials, barking in hurried French, interrogating her on what had happened. She barely spoke the language, but she did catch on a few words such as "dark magic", and a few profanities— it seemed as if they were suspecting her. She swung at them, pointing to the half-dead boy hanging off of her neck, and it was then that they gave up persecuting the girl.

They had gone back on the train, and it took a few hours for the officials to clean up the mess before it resumed its journey. The occasional officer passed by her compartment, an accusatory glance sent her way, but she paid no mind to them, her spirit focused on the limp body of Icarus Lestrange.

He had lost much blood, and Varya was no physician, but she knew that was a dilemma. His skin was pale as the flakes that tumbled from the azure, and she tried her best to mend his torn cheek fully, alternating between spells and cold compresses on his forehead. He had acquired a fever, his body fighting against the strain the creature had caused, and Varya was genuinely concerned. Eventually, there was nothing more the girl could do, and so she sat next to him, his head in her lap, and stroked his whiskey locks that had been drenched in perspiration.

He would recover, that was what she hoped, but he would always have the scar to prove the tale, and in a way, he would always have something that reminded him of her, and that was something she could not face just yet.

She knew it was her fault; she could not explain how or why, but there was this staggering sensation that told her she was the cause of all this madness. And now Icarus had paid for it, and Varya wondered how many more would follow suit.

The girl was fatigued, and she tried her best to stay awake for the rest of the night, eyelids almost fluttering shut, but she had to watch over the boy— there was no time to rest, not until his fever broke.

The rest of the journey took three hours, and when the train pulled in _Gare Saint-Lazare_ , a sigh of comfort escaped Varya's lips. She cast a charm, helping Icarus' body levitate, as well as all of their bags, then stepped out on the wizarding platform. Around her, sorcerers stole inquisitive glances at the two Hogwarts students, so tortuously foreign and peculiar, but nobody approached them.

She walked to an unoccupied bench on the side, and let Icarus' body fall on it, which rattled the boy awake.

"Where are we?" he stammered as he broke out of his sleep, cringing at the heavy ache in his face muscles. He hastily conjured a mirror and gazed in it at the oddly scared cheekbone. Varya had done her best, but the boy's face would forever carry the memory of their encounter.

He glanced at the girl, who was staring off into space, looking at the passing trains, and noticed her deplorable state. Her hair had coiled yet again, and dusk crawled underneath her eyes, a sign of sleep-depravation. It was not the same as it had been when she was poisoned; no, this was mental exhaustion, and he queried what was gnawing at her thoughts. Icarus eyes darted to the signs on the walls, and he understood they had reached Paris, his consciousness still a little murky.

The last thing he remembered was the coldness of the snow pressed against his skin, the thundering vibration of Varya's magic, and her consumed eyes, void, and white, as she burned the demon alive with a ritual Icarus had never seen before. He glanced at the girl and wondered if she knew what she had looked like at that moment, so devoured by the glorious macabre, so fitting for the trickster's taste.

He got up, then reached out for the girl, but stopped suddenly. She needed space to come to terms with what had happened, with almost watching the boy die, and seeing so many corpses scattered around the wagons.

His back hurt from the fetal position he had slept in, and he vaguely remembered trembling fingers darting through his hair, pulling at his roots, and he felt himself heat up despite the chills that ran his skin from his fever. Icarus' face turned crimson, and he found himself pulling at the collar. Nevertheless, this was not a time to think about the girl.

He was still wobbly on his feet, but no general ever surrendered because of a battle wound, and if anything, Icarus would consider this a preparation for when the actual moment of truth came— when he would stand by Tom Riddle to conquer the world.

Icarus started dragging her trunk, and Varya followed closely behind as they passed the threshold of the station, entering a bubbling waiting room for wizards and witches. Once again, eyes followed as the two disheveled teenagers passed through the crowd, some even puffing at the red gash on the boy's face and the dried blood that covered his shirt and part of his pants.

"You should change your shirt," were the first words Varya told Icarus, as she pulled at the bloodied material with an apathetic face. He looked down, then swiftly cast the _Tengo_ charm, immediately siphoning the liquid. A serviceable spell taught by Nicholas Avery after his multiple surreptitious affairs.

Varya hummed, then pointed to the door that read "Floo Network," and they made their way inside. As soon as they stepped in the chamber, they were greeted by a hale wizard, short in stature but very brawny, and his green robes hung below his ankles as he scrammed to reach them. Behind him, an abnormally large fireplace that glowed with green flames, sparks crackling as other magical beings come and went.

"Where are you headed?" He demanded, French dialect so heavy it was barely understandable, each "y" turning into a soft "z."

" _Beaumont-en-Verdunois_ ," answered Icarus, perfectly pronouncing it, and Varya blessed the skies for his presence because her lacking French skills would have had her end up in a completely different city.

"Follow me," stated the wizard, and gestured for them to head into the direction of a fireplace that read "Domestic Travels."

Then, the bright grassy flares sized up as Icarus passed into them with their luggage, completely disappearing, and Varya followed his lead. It was a novel feeling, something that would definitely require time to accustom to, but before she could even blink, Varya found herself walking out of a different fireplace and into a desolate room, similar to the abandoned house in Hogsmeade.

She grimaced, slightly puzzled at her surroundings, then dawdled behind Icarus as they stepped outside and into the pristine snow. The sun was blazing now, and the morningtide predicted a pleasant, blithe Christmas Eve.

The outside was similar to the room she had traveled to, as the landscape was filled with structures engulfed in vegetation, vestiges of what seemed to be an ancient cathedral, and roads that had seen better days. There was no breathing soul nearby, almost as if every villager had perished in a whirlwind of enigma, leaving behind ruined havens and lost automobiles. On the side of the trail, Varya could see the shape of what seemed to be a stuffed animal, almost as if a child had lost it while fleeing. _Beaumont-en-Verdunois_ was a ghost town.

"Icarus?" the girl called after the boy that had started taking a beaten road to another fallen house, "Are we in the right place?"

Icarus turned to her, frown on his face, then quickly realized this was the girl's first time visiting the Rosier Manor, "Of course we are, darling, we are in Beaumont-en-Verdunois, but surely you did not think that the Rosire family would merely live in the open? They are a renowned lineage, and that brings many foes, so when the village was destroyed, they charmed their manor to disappear from the prying eyes, and now only those whom they welcome into their house can find it."

Varya scowled at the obsessive mindset, and questioned who exactly the family had upset that they needed to hide from the outside world, "What do you mean the village was destroyed?"

Lestrange pushed open the door of the house, but did not pass the threshold as he turned to look at her, "Yes, Beaumont-en-Verdunois used to be a spirited place, until the German troops tried to take it during the first World War, and when the french opposed, they simply bombarded most of northeastern France, exterminating everything in sight."

"But why did nobody come back?"

"After the bombings, most of the area was inhabitable, and the government labeled it as the Red Zone. They gave up, saying that the damage was too colossal, but there are other tales..." he drifted off, eyes cast over the forest that spread across the hills.

Varya followed his gaze, eyes trailing the forest, and that is when she saw it. The small head peeking out from the trees, eyes so sunken they were barely there, and skin so ghastly it could not belong to a living being. The creatures roamed the linings of the woods, watching them with prying eyes, "Spirits?"

"Yes, thousands of lost souls that haunt the area, and they do not take well to muggles trying to demolish the houses that were brutally stolen from them— naturally," responded Icarus, unsettled by the spirits that were gazing at them.

"So, the French government is aware of their existence?"

"Most powerful men in the world are aware, muggle or not, and after the exponential growth of magic during the war, the Ministry of Magic had to step up. If the spirit world gets exposed, the wizarding world follows closely. In the end, it was for the better."

"That makes you wonder what will happen after this war has ended," said Varya, as she watched the little ghost of a young girl drag her toy through the murky snow, and despite being dead, she still carried the joviality of a child— one that had gone too soon, "Not all spirits are malevolent."

Icarus gave her a peculiar look, baffled by her statement, especially after the previous night's happenings, but perhaps Varya Petrov had a few screws loose. After all, she had grown surrounded by monstrous beings, and it was only logical.

Nevertheless, he grabbed her arm and dragged her through the threshold, and before Varya knew it, she was standing before an imperial mansion, with lands so widespread that the Rosier estate could be its own small village.

Grand pillars fenced the entrance of the Rosier Manor, and its Baroque architecture stood boastfully against the sky. The amalgam of windows was traced with utmost details, so much so that it must have taken years to build. The dramaticism of the construction was striking, with multiple statues depicting some of the most celebrated wizards of all time in chivalrous battles. Some of them moved, some of them stood still, but all of them carried Slytherian repletion, the undoubted house of any Rosier.

The entrance was marvelous, with quartz stairs leading to a set of two doors, each of them painted with obscure swirls and patterns. Elladora Selwyn stood outside, her legs resting on the stairs as she sat down, and her flowy red dress contrasted against the creamy beige of the spectacle. Her feline eyes rested on the pair as they slowly approached, and she found herself standing up in excitement, but also some frustration.

"You were supposed to be here hours ago! We were all troubled," she announced as she ran to Icarus, giving him a soft embrace, but the boy only pushed her away.

"I smell rancid, Elladora," he grumbled, exhaustion suddenly hitting him as he had arrived at his destination. The girl glanced at the other witch in the courtyard, and a flash of resentment passed her eyes. Even so, she walked to Varya and petted her ruffled hair down almost condescendingly.

"What ever happened to you, have you not slept in days? Poor thing, look at you."

Varya gripped her hand, shrugging it off of her, and sent her the nastiest glare that the girl had ever received, "Touch me again, Selwyn, and I will make sure it is not just your ear lobes that are disproportional."

Icarus cackled madly behind them, "This ought to be the most interesting Christmas I have had in a while. Well, then, let us move on girls, I need a bath, and you are standing in my way."

Elladora jeered at the girl, but did not retort anything as she twisted around and followed Icarus to the house. Varya picked her trunk, and made her way to the stairs, but her eyes caught onto something.

A solitary figure stood on the central balcony of the manor, staring at her with an inquisitive scowl, and his lips were pulled in his uttermost treacherous sneer. His eyes carried the soul of the twilight, and unlike last time she had seen him, he was wearing a formidable attire that made him look almost sovereign. Tom Riddle, the prince of the damned and the nefarious, stood gripping the balcony's railway as his eyes sauntered the estate, before landing on Varya Petrov.

The dark witch held her stance, insubordinate before the eyes of the Dark Lord, and she cared for nothing but her own pride. They had seen each other only recently, barely more than a day, and yet it felt so far away in her mind. He had thought her weak multiple times, had ridiculed her power, but what would the boy have thought if he had seen her fight against the demonic creature from Hell?

How many times had Tom Riddle plagued her nightmares? His venom had slipped into her bloodstream, spreading to every organ, and taking over everything that she was made of. He was Lucifer's son, so disastrous in nature that he would have no trouble ruling over Hell when he inevitably reached it.

And, how many times had he plagued her most concealed dreams, with delicate hands and hushed words, something the girl would never admit to herself? He was temptation, and he was sin. This was the clashing mind of Varya Petrov, who had not quite figured out what the boy was to her.

"Varya!" came the excited call of Renold Rosier, and the girl broke her gaze with Tom as the heir of the estate pulled her in a tight hug, swinging her around with excitement. "We were all troubled when your train did not arrive on time, and we were close to placing a tracking spell on you. Avery thought you and Lestrange were off in some secret rendevous; you should have seen how close Riddle was to hexing his brain into a puddle!"

It was odd, the way the man was so friendly toward her, almost sincere in his behavior, and yet he had had no problem snooping around her past and reporting back to Riddle. Some part of her knew it was only duty, and that nothing would ever top the loyalty they felt towards each other, and yet she was resentful at the multiple masks the boys always wore around her.

Varya scoffed, "Why, he thought his plan was forsaken?"

Rosier gave her a smile as he guided her inside, "Something like that, I suppose."

The inside of the house was just as impressive as the courtyard, with chandeliers swooping over the marble tiles, and a sumptuous staircase stood in the middle of the large foyer, extending to two different wings of the manor. In all their splendor, the walls were covered with portraits of people the witch could just assume belonged to the Rosier line, and where the two staircases met, stood a marvelous portrait of Renold Rosier and his parents.

"Knuck will show to your room," stated Rosier, then gestured to the House-Elf that had appeared out of thin air on the expensive table beside Varya, giving her a fright. The Elf bowed politely but did not speak as it snapped its fingers, making her luggage disappear.

It hopped off the table, and Varya found herself trailing behind it, sending Ren a shy glance as she rounded the corner. Walking the hallway, the girl let her eyes analyze the chamber, stopping on every portrait or artifact. The Rosier family enjoyed extravagance, she concluded.

The House-Elf opened a door, then gestured for her to walk in, and Varya gasped at the exquisite furnishings. A king-sized bed stood in the middle of the room, dressed in the finest silk, a thick baby blue duvet covering it. There were more pillows that the girl had ever seen, and each corner was fenced by a Victorian pillar that raised to the ceiling, a baldachin standing over her mattress. A fireplace was in the corner, with two comfortable sofa chairs and a miniature table, and small bookshelves above it. The chandelier was more modest than those in the foyer, but its diamond drops still twinkled in the flame's light.

The door shut behind her abruptly, and Varya frowned at the House-Elf, who was not nearly as gentle as the one in Hogwarts' kitchens. She made her way to her trunks, and opened them up, rummaging for a change of clothes. She pulled out a dress that blended in with the night, so dark it seemed to suck in the air around it, and she threw it on her bed with other garments she would need.

Her bathroom was attached to her room, and she immediately jumped in the bathtub, cherishing the warm water against her skin. She could have been inside for a whole hour, maybe even more; it was not until a knock sounded at her door that she bothered to get out.

"Give me a minute!"

Varya dried herself quickly, then put on her clothes and shoes, and hurried to the door. She opened it, only to be greeted with the roguish smirk of Tom Riddle.

"Your hair is wet," he mumbled, and he felt himself reaching out to touch a loose strand that fell on her face, pushing it to the side. Varya Petrov looked weary, and yet she still stood firm, opposing him with every fiber of her being.

"You interrupted my bath," the girl muttered, turning her face away from him and allowing Tom to enter the room. His eyes darted around, then settled on her open luggage, where the girl had put various ingredients and charms on display. He tried to reach out for them, but Varya got in his way, "You have a death wish? Do not touch any of those, or you will find yourself cursed."

"So you have finished the enchantments, then?" he inquired, taking a seat by the fire as he watched her pat her hair with a towel. Small drops trailed from her jaw all the way down her neck, and her face was still flushed from the heat of the water's vapor.

"Almost," she sighed, then grabbed a pair of gloves and put them on her hands before carrying the objects to the table in front of Riddle, "I charmed each marble and made it a dark object, which itself is quite dangerous, but I have yet to cast the actual curse because..."

"Speak up," he demanded, and the girl shot him a glare.

"Because, Riddle, I was busy fighting a fucking demon," she said harshly, and the boy clicked his tongue at her bad manners. It was uncommon for a lady in their time to curse so openly, and yet Varya never seemed to hold herself back around him.

"So I have heard," he hummed, gaze on the way her fingers moved with the tiny marbles, "I also saw that it gave Lestrange quite the nasty scar, I suppose he would have been done for if you were not there. Perhaps, I should consider you for his position."

"Position?" the girl questioned, "Are you all in a cult or something? I mean, I knew you were all quite the exclusive clique, but you make it sound so official."

Varya, of course, knew that there was more to it, and that the boy had bigger plans than extorting information from a few party attendees, but she could not let that show. As far as she knew, Tom had recruited her for a mission without giving her a reason.

Tom, however, did not appreciate the elusiveness, "You and I both know that you are well aware of what my group is, Petrov. We are not a mere school clique, but an organization of future leaders and powerful sorcerers."

"Really?" she mocked, "And what is this after-school club of yours called?"

"The Knights of Walpurgis."

And there it was, another piece of information that she had managed to extract from him. Varya's skin twinkled with excitement, and she wondered if Tom realized that after so many months of him manipulating her, the tables were starting to turn. Tom Riddle was slowly opening to her.

"Funny name," she replied, turning her back to his exasperated expression to focus on her dark objects. She had chosen marbles specifically because they could easily be slipped into the pockets of unsuspecting guests, and once placed on a person, the curse would take in full effect.

She had bewitched them with a spell that wound render the cursed person unable to lie, even more so that they will feel immense pride, and would openly brag about their achievements. Ego was the self-made dagger that every man pierced their own chest with.

Of course, there was always the possibility of them having some sort of protection, but dark objects were more challenging to detect than poison, mostly when they were so small.

Varya sat beside the table, legs crossed, her back towards the fire so her hair could dry faster, and took out her occult book, skimming through the pages that she had underlined while on the train. Her judicious fingers read over the words, then she placed the book to her side. She pulled out a chalk piece, and drew a small symbol on each of them, then placed a small bowl on the table.

"Wait."

Varya gazed up at Tom Riddle, who was now watching her with a peculiar expression that even the girl could not understand. He got up from his chair, then sat at the table right across from her, legs pulled to the side. He picked up a scarf that Varya had placed on one of the chairs, then transfigured it in a pair of gloves, putting them on his hands eagerly.

He looked at her with an emotionless look, but his eyes shone with pure determination, "Teach me how to do it."

Varya's face flashed with surprise, and she found herself put on the spot. Teach Tom Riddle more dark magic? Was that not against what she was supposed to do? Even so, she found herself passing him the book, pointing a finger to the Latin words inscribed on the page.

"This is not your usual wand magic, it is a ritual, and for it to work, you have to prepare the objects," the witch picked up a marble, then showed him the small symbol she had scribbled on it, "this is what we call sigils, we use them for dark rituals, and they are a connection between our realm and Hell."

"Hell?" he said, surprised, toying the small marble in his hands.

"Yes, magic was never supposed to belong to humans. In most religions, you will find that it goes against scripture, and so, it is only natural to assume that it originated from down below, especially dark magic. Back in Transylvania, villagers believed that witchcraft was the Devil's gift to the sinners, and that only the families that had forsaken God would be gifted with it," she explained, then took out a few roots of plants that would not be found in any ordinary store, but that she had brought from her old academy, "this is rowan root, you might find that the wood is used in wands that offer strong protection, but the bulb itself is actually used by muggles to ward off witchcraft. So, when casting a curse against a wizard, it can be compelling."

She handed it to him, and somewhat it felt like giving a mad man a bomb to light up, but the boy simply looked at it, fascination in his eyes. Varya instructed him to cut it in circular shapes, then in small bits.

"Rooster bones," she continued, placing them on the table and preparing to smash them with a hammer, "a prideful animal, and pride is the sin of all wizards, so when added to a mixture, it makes them succumb to it, and that leads to many secrets being exposed. It is quite a powerful bird, at that...have you ever heard of basilisks?"

Tom's hand froze, then he turned his head cryptically to look at her, "Excuse me?"

The girl did not notice the weird tension in his body, thinking it was just his displeasure at not knowing something, "Yes, basilisks, they are part of Romanian folklore, giant serpents born from a chicken's egg hatched by a toad, they are deadly. And yet, the song of a rooster is fatal to them. Quite poetic, really, the mother gives birth, and yet the father can easily kill it."

Tom kept his eyes trained on the girl who was now focused on hammering down the bones, and for a second, he let himself plan out the many ways he could kill her on the spot. He could take her hammer, bash it against her skull until it was nothing but powder, and her blood stained the Arabian rug on the floor with crimson, splattered across the fireplace and the tapestries. He could push her face in the fire behind her, keep it down until her screams faded into the satisfying sound of flesh sizzling, and the room caught an odd odor that would remain for years to come. He could pull his wand, and cast the unforgivable curse on her, having her hit the ground before she even turned her head to him.

She knew too much about things that Tom wanted her to be ignorant about, and that was potentially hazardous. He did not want to harm her, she was a valuable asset to his team, but she was not loyal and could easily go babbling to Dumbledore like the child that she was.

Rosier had told him about the lie that she had made up, how Dumbledore knew her family. Such a calamity, and he should have tortured her for it until her screams resonated in every corner of the manor, but he had to play it out to his advantage. The girl did not know that her secret had been exposed, and right now, it was her Achille's heel.

"And then," she continued after she had finished smashing the bones into a soft powder and took the root that Tom had chopped, "you mix them in a bowl with the smallest amount of cattle blood, but that is just for consistency really. And you deep the marbles in— oh, do you want to do it?"

Tom nodded, shaking the murderous thought away. Even if the girl knew about the basilisk, he doubted she would ever connect it to the Chamber of Secrets, especially without the Most Macabre Monstrosities book, and there were more significant issues at hand.

He picked up the marbles, dipping them in the grayish liquid that the girl had stirred, and then he watched her as she started reciting another Latin ritual, eyes flared with sadism, and waved her hands above the bowl.

Then, something unusual happened.

Tom had seen her perform magic before, and, although it had been weakened by his meddling, he had assumed that casting the spell itself was similar. And yet, he watched the girl's eyes flash white, pupils disappearing as the magic consumed her with each chanted words, hair flying in all directions and voice lowering an octave.

She chanted faster, aggressively, and raised her hands to levitate the dark objects above the table in a circle, her eyes trained on them even if they were blanked. Her lips parted in a sinister smile, then, the marbles dropped to the table, and Varya returned to her usual delicate self.

Tom frowned, and it threw the girl off. Was this normal?

"What?" she asked once she noticed his aloof stare, almost as if he was breaking her into pieces and analyzing every single part of her. It was something that would happen very often between the two them— Varya would do something unexpected, and then Tom would contemplate over it for hours, mind only filled with _her_.

"Nothing," he muttered, getting up swiftly and dusting his pants off, "I will see you at dinner."

Varya watched him exit the room with a confused look on her face, not understanding his sudden change in behavior. Had she done something wrong? She had thought that Tom was slowly opening up to her, and yet again, he had pulled those walls back-up. It was a game of cat and mouse, and she did not know which animal belonged to both of them, as the roles seemed to frequently switch.

She looked at the marbles that were on the table, and with a flick of her wrist, sent them in a small saddle bag that she had brought for the event, and had charmed to trap dark magic. Varya was still thinking about how she was going to plant every object on the guests, as she could not be seen wandering around each of them like a lunatic.

She had to get Rosier on board, as he would be welcoming the attendees, and could easily slip the marbles in while exchanging pleasantries. Varya took her gloves off, then easily transfigured them in a pair that would fit a male, while charming them with a protective spell.

Her hair had dried, although it was quite a mess still, and she pulled it in a tight braid on one side of her face, which she brought to her other cheek and clasped it with a pin, creating the illusion of a crown. Her midnight dress was stoically beautiful, and she paired it with some comfortable shoes and long, white gloves.

She opened her jewelry box, reaching out for pearls, and suddenly saw the green locket that Tom had been fascinated with in one of the compartments, pulsating magic. She picked it up, then let it dangle from her palm, twisting the chain with her fingers.

Varya had, for a while, debated giving it to Riddle, as the boy did not know that she had stolen it from the store, and would probably go back for it as soon as he was back in London. However, she wanted to know why he craved it, and before she was able to find that out, Riddle would not lay his fingers on the locket.

The girl hid it in a secret compartment of her jewelry box, picking out the marvelous pearls, and then got up from the vanity, making her way downstairs. It was sure to be an eventful evening. 


	30. chapter twenty-eight

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

THE HISTORY OF the Knights was one of old tales. It had been almost as if fate had wanted all six heirs of some of the most powerful wizarding families in England to attend Hogwarts in the same year, have them grow up together, their ingenious minds eventually finding a ruthless leader in half-blood Tom Riddle.

Tom Riddle has always been an odd boy, someone who had channeled his trauma into ambition, and had gotten entangled with the wickedest scriptures and spells. He was born to be a conqueror, and Hell would have no mercy on those who opposed him. _He was wrath_.

It had been Malfoy who had joined first, intrigued by Riddle's ambiguous heritage in their first year, and he had helped the boy trace back his lineage. At first, the idea of mingling with a half-blood repulsed the elitist, but when the boy understood that he was befriending the heir of Salazar Slytherin, he put his full faith in him. _He was pride_.

Tom Riddle was charming, and he had a particular lure to him that obliged the admiration of his fellow Slytherins. Above all, however, he was intelligent, and to those that sought wisdom and control, such as Nicholas Avery and Maxwell Nott, he was the archetypical villain. So the sociopathic butcher and the brooding cerebral archivist joined his ranks in their second year.

Maxwell had always been someone that possessed a profound desire for knowledge, spending most of his time in the Rosier library during his childhood, and yet it never satiated his craving. He always needed more, more, and more. _He was greed_.

On the other hand, Avery was the stark contrast to his dearest friend, and where Maxwell wanted _more_ , Nicholas wanted _less_. He was a man of great potential, with a mind equally keen to Nott and Riddle, and yet he had taken another habit—the macabre calling of torture. _He was acedia_.

Then, Lestrange had accosted Tom after Riddle had defeated him in a duel for their Defense Against the Dark Arts class, investigating how he had perfected intricate spells at such an early age. Tom Riddle told him that he would show him, and engrossed the little devil in his preachings of magical supremacy. Moreover, Icarus had stayed true to his beliefs, up until a certain girl had made him question his ties to the Dark Lord. _He was lust_.

Elladora Selwyn had always been an indrawn girl, who deemed that magic had been tarnished by muggle-born witches and the immorality of wizards. They had strayed away from their actual power, too afraid to join the ranks of those who valued the dark arts. She joined Tom Riddle's group because of their shared values; there was no denying that, but there had also been something else that had attracted her to it— the boy she was infatuated with, Icarus Lestrange. It had been this reason that had pushed her into betraying Varya Petrov as she had, even more so when she had heard the boy's genuine affection for the foreigner. _She was envy._

Lastly, Rosier Renold had approached them at a ball in their fourth year, impressed by the influential minds that had gathered together. Because he was the last to join, they had always been wary of his loyalty. Nevertheless, he had vast connections, and that had proven to be incredibly useful. Rosier was a man that had grown up in the French court, surrounded by grandeur and lavishment, drowned in monetary richness. _He was voracity._

Seven devils that sauntered the hallways of Hogwarts, each committing a different kind of deadly sin, a clique so impressive in power and knowledge that they parted crowds like the Red Sea, spreading terror wherever they walked. They gathered with every chance they could get, plotting between the dark walls of the Room of Requirement, fighting for the cause they found noble.

If you asked any other Slytherin what they thought the common thing between the seven of them was, they would have probably said their fanaticism against mudbloods. That was true, to some degree, as most of the Knights of Walpurgis did resent those who had been born from muggle parents, and Tom Riddle had been trying to release the basilisk and cleanse the school for the better part of his Hogwarts years.

Nevertheless, that was not their cause.

The Knights of Walpurgis wanted power. They wanted to ensure that Tom Riddle would take over the wizarding world and reestablish its laws, encouraging the performance of dark arts and the supremity of pure-blood superiority. And thus, they had devoted themselves to finding ways to make him invincible.

Furthermore, Grindelwald was their biggest threat, the dark wizard that had managed to take over most of Europe with his preachings. They needed him to back down; they had to find something on the wizard. And when whispers of a grand scheme that Grindelwald was planning started surfacing, Rosier had immediately reported back to Tom. Now, the group had a new conquest— find out the truth by using Varya Petrov to lure out the dark wizard.

It was deplorable, really, and some of the members were unsure of the plan, as they had taken a liking to the girl. Even so, their cause came above all, and if needed, they would intervene to protect the witch.

As long as it did not bring harm to their schemes.

Here is where the paradox began— had Varya not come to Hogwarts, the Knights of Walpurgis would have never been able to reach Grindelwald, and yet, with the Petrov witch attending their school, they only had to pull a few strings and parade her at a ball.

That had been the first significant shift in the time vail, something that strayed Tom Riddle from his intended fate, and yet, it was hard to conclude if it was good or bad. The answer to that question could only be told by one thing— time.

Tom Riddle stood in the middle of Renold Rosier's office, whereas his acolytes were scattered all over the room, watching him as he twisted the ring on his finger. The ominous atmosphere in the room was palpable, the kind of trepidation that is only brought by a forecast of rainfall and thunder. They had noticed his odd behavior as soon as he walked into the room, and had exchanged brief glances. Something was amiss, and their Lord was restless.

"Riddle," began Malfoy as he approached his leader with tentative steps, "something is bothering you. I assume it has to do with the witch."

Tom Riddle let out a bitter chuckle, his expression something between exasperation and intrigue, "That always seems to be the case nowadays, does it not?"

Varya Petrov, what an odd character. He could never quite figure her out, and that bothered him. Something was enthralling about the girl, and he wanted to figure her out more than ever.

"What has she done now?" asked Abraxas as he spoke with his friend in hushed tones, unsure of whether the girl could be listening to them again or not. He knew they had come to discuss her, and they only had brief moments before dinner.

Tom turned to Icarus, who stood by the window, analyzing his new scar in the reflection. His fingers scratched at it slightly, testing the rough skin. It had healed completely, the work of Varya Petrov, and yet the mark that extended from his ear to his cheek was extremely noticeable. He wondered what excuse he could make for it when they went back to Hogwarts. A hunting accident, perhaps?

"Lestrange, you were with Petrov while she was performing her magic. Did you, perhaps, notice anything unusual?" questioned Tom, eyes trained on his duelist. His first fighter in command, and yet, he had been bested by Varya Petrov.

"Her magic itself is unusual, so I am not sure what to make of it," said the boy, thinking of the girl with fondness.

"What about her eyes?" Tom probed further, sitting at the desk as he scanned the room. All seven of them were here, and yet part of him felt like something was missing.

"White, blank, terrifying," recalled Icarus, thinking back to how the girl had been consumed by her power, something like he had never seen. They all knew that her witchcraft practice was different, but something told Lestrange that the group had severely underestimated her capabilities.

Tom hummed, tapping his fingers against the wooden desk as he let his head fall back to the chair's support. He closed his eyes, taking a small breath, and concentrating, trying to focus his mind. However, whenever he let his thought drift, they were filled with the face of a devious witch.

Why was she such an enigma? It almost seemed like she had appeared out of thin air, and no matter how hard they looked, they could barely find anything on her. Tom's mind was still on her association with Dumbledore, and although he had not brought it up to the witch, he knew he had to act quickly and devise a new scheme.

"Rosier, what did you find on her?"

The boy walked forward, setting a pile of documents in front of their Lord, and Tom grabbed at it, hungry for information. He read over a few pages, passages of research results, some history notes, and then, something caught his eyes at the bottom of the final paper. His throat constricted, and he looked up at his followers who were watching him with curious eyes.

"Are you sure of this, Rosier?" he asked, setting the paper on the desk, "Because if what this paper tells me is true..."

"I know," the boy breathed, "I was surprised myself, but it makes sense, and furthermore, it came from reliable sources. The Romanian villager gave it to me in confidence, and well, considering the memory you saw—"

Tom raised his hand, signaling to Rosier to stop his babbling, and the boy took a step back, falling in line with the rest. Azure eyes scanned the papers once again, rereading the words, and Tom let his chin rest on his palm as he pursed his lips in thought.

Of course, _it did make sense_ ; after all, Dumbledore's words had foreshadowed it. And yet, he had not expected this result himself. Did Albus know of it? Did he understand what had happened, and was that why he was so eager to bring the witch to Hogwarts?

Then, Tom rose from his seat with elegance, and he clasped his hands behind his back, taking small steps toward the window. He looked outside, eyes drifting to the horizon, where darkness was starting to bloom, and with each second, it came closer.

"Do not let Petrov know," he said, face turned away from the Knights, and as the shadows cast upon his face, a sinister smile grew, "I believe we have found ourselves the key to ascending to power."

It was time for dinner.

***

Varya was a prideful witch, as she had always known that her affinity with the dark arts was superior to the rest, her mind so sturdy that it put most of her classmates to shame. Nevertheless, when standing in front of seven equally imperial faces, she felt some sense of insecurity take over.

She cleared her throat and walked toward the staircase where the group was waiting, chatting eagerly about whatever new gossip Rosier had found, and when her shoes clicked against the marble floor, she saw them all turn to look at her.

As if walking the dessert underneath a tornado of ravenous eagles, she felt preyed upon, almost as if they were going to pounce on her at any moment and rip her throat out, then feast on her secrets.

It was the first time she had found to be in the same room as the seven of them, at least when they actually showed their camaraderie, and Varya almost felt like an intruder. She was the outsider, the person they were toying with, and Varya knew that none of them were truly attached or loyal to her.

Varya Petrov was not among friends.

"Great to see you join us," said Nicholas Avery as he stepped down and towards the eastern girl, hand extended in everyday pleasantries, and Varya found herself putting her fingers in his grasp, allowing the boy to escort her up the stairs where the rest of them were waiting.

Elladora gave her a brief glance, then made her way to stand by Icarus Lestrange, completely ignoring Varya's existence, as she was probably still sour from what had happened earlier. Abraxas Malfoy nodded courteously, and Maxwell Nott gave her a small bow as she passed him, entering the dining room of the Rosier Manor.

Nicholas dragged her to sit by him in order to discuss the plan for the next day in silence, and the rest of them sat scattered around the table. Renold Rosier joined them a few seconds later, trailing behind his parents— Renold Corvin Rosier and Bellatris Rosier. They sat at the head of the table, and Varya wondered how Tom felt with one of his followers sitting above him, although he was sat right of Rosier himself.

"Greetings," said Corvin Rosier as he looked over the table, eyes finally landing on the new addition to the group and narrowing, "A new face, son?"

"Yes, father," said Rosier quickly, eyes darting to Varya as he cleared his throat, "Father, mother, this is Varya Petrov."

Bellatris Rosier gasped, "Petrov? Oh, it is a pleasure to have such a powerful bloodline at the table, then. Please, make yourself feel at home. After all, your parents were great friends of ours— ah, perhaps we should not say that."

Ren's father, however, was not as pleased by her appearance, and immediately scolded his son, "Junior, why would you bring someone associated with Grindelwald into your group? You are aware of how dire our situation is with Vinda and—"

"Nonsense, dear, blood purity thrives above everything else, and besides, she is Lyudmila's daughter. It is only right that we welcome her."

Varya stood at the table awkwardly, gripping her dress in her hands underneath, unsure of what to say while the three discussed her existence as if she was not there. She caught Icarus' eyes, who gave her a pitiful look that only angered her more.

She did not know her parents, and she had no association with them besides her blood, having barely spent a few years with them. Thus, Varya should not have to deal with the mess that they had left behind, the ultimate division of opinions on her existence.

Varya stayed quiet, only muttering a soft, "It is my pleasure, madam."

The dinner arrived, and the guests were presented with a vary of delicacies; a combination of the finest beef money could buy and fresh vegetables. Varya had no appetite, however, still upset over the conversation, and she glanced at Avery, who was politely sipping on a glass of red wine. She wondered if it reminded him of blood.

Almost as if sensing her stare, Nicholas turned to face her, licking his reddened lips, "Yes, Petrov?"

"Tomorrow," she started in a hushed tone, glancing around the room to make sure nobody was eavesdropping, "I need someone to plant the objects on the guests, I cannot do it myself for I risk attracting too much attention."

"Rosier greets the guests, it would be best for him to do it," began Avery.

"Yes, I thought so as well."

"Let me finish— it would be ideal for him to do it; unfortunately, he will be a drunken mess the minute the doors of the ballroom open, and he will inevitably get caught, so it is best we find someone else to do your bidding," he spun his almost empty glass, deep in thought. He threw Maxwell a glance, who sat across from him, and kicked his leg underneath the table.

"What?" asked Nott, casting his eyes between the two of them, irritated by the fact that they had interrupted him from admiring the prized paintings on the walls. Although Varya was not as bothersome as she once was, he was never thrilled to have a conversation with her.

"We need you to plant the vixen's dark objects on the guests," said Nicholas, cutting directly to the chase.

"Piss off, Avery, I do not get involved in your schemes. Last time I did it, this girl right here lost her mind and wanted to murder me for setting her dead pet on fire," he scoffed, earning a glare from Varya, who did not appreciate the way he described the event. There had been a solid reason for her reaction at that time.

"You poisoned her, of course she wanted to murder you."

"No, that was _you_ , not me."

"Same thing."

"Barely. For one, I prefer reading books than torturing information out of people."

Varya watched them banter in hushed tones, and as she looked around the table, she noticed that nobody else was paying mind to it, probably already used to it. She had always thought Avery and Nott to be the closest of the group, as they were almost always together, and in some way, they balanced each other out.

Nott was the rational side of things, the one who spent his nights in the libraries, parchments spread out in front of him as he researched yet another topic for Riddle. He mostly kept to himself, and did not talk unless someone specifically addressed him. Avery was the emotional side, always acting on a whim, his impulse usually being out of control. Sure, he was well versed in books, but that was not his primary source of knowledge. Nicholas particularly enjoyed forcing it out of someone's mouth.

Like yin and yang, the two fell into a balanced friendship, and it was because of that camaraderie that they fought like children, always pulling and tugging each other on another side of things. In retrospect, it was the most innocent thing about the two Knights.

"You could ask Lopheus, I would say he would be up for the job, the damn cleptomaniac and his sticky fingers," chuckled Nott as he bit into another boiled potato, then frowned when it burned his tongue.

"Merlin, Nott— you are a genius!" said Avery, groaning from realization.

"And are you coming to that realization now? About fifteen years late," his friend grumbled, ignoring the glare he received, as passive about his surroundings as always. Maxwell was not a person to pick up on social cues very easily, and often needed Nicholas to explain why he should not be so candid with people.

Avery still remembered a faithful day in the autumn of their fourth year, when a girl had decided to ask Nott out on the date, and the boy had been completely confused by it, questioning why he should be interested in going out with her. He had been genuinely perplexed, as Nott had always been the type that only read about romance, and never bothered to pursue it, but the question had come off remarkably harsh for the innocent girl, and she had stormed off crying. When Avery and Lestrange explained it later, Nott had just stared at them with flickering eyes, eyebrows furrowed in discontent.

Varya hoisted an eyebrow at the pair, "Lopheus?"

She had never heard that name before, and Varya was extremely skeptical about bringing another person in her plan. First of all, she did not know if he was someone that could be trusted. Secondly, the cursed marbles had to be handled with care, and she was wary of handing them off to someone else as it was, much more so a stranger. After all, if everything went south, it was indeed her that would be blamed by Riddle.

Avery shot her an exasperated look. "Yes, Lopheus Evergreen. He is a pure-blood from the United States. Funny lad, likes to mess around with people, and is incredibly good at poker— anyhow, he is loyal to Riddle and would surely help."

"Riddle has people outside of Hogwarts?" asked Varya, curiosity peaking at the idea.

"Of course he does, but do not stress your little brain over that, and trust Nott and me. We will get this done swiftly, hand us the marbles whenever you can."

Varya scoffed, playing with her food and wondering how easy it would be to stab her fork in Avery's eye socket. Then, she felt eyes on her, and as she looked up, she saw Tom Riddle giving her an apocalyptic look. The things that had transpired between the two in her room certainly left an odd taste in her mouth, as the boy had acted fantastically out of character.

He had urged her to teach him a ritual, and somehow, she doubted Tom was one to openly do such things, as he preferred studying on his own or having his followers collect information for him. He never asked for assistance. Moreover, although she was involved in their newest scheme, Varya knew that Tom did not regard her the same way as he did the rest.

The boy would not take his gaze off of her, and she started feeling its weight almost immediately. His eyes were calculative, and she could tell he was trying to figure something out. She met his stare defiantly, and raised an eyebrow, but the boy only frowned deeper, then turned his head away from her.

The dinner ended shortly, and Varya wanted to go back to her room and start reading the volumes she had acquired at Borgin and Burkes, as she had not been able to open them around Della. She thanked the Rosiers, then proceeded to head to her room, passing by the figure of the Knights, who did not stop her.

Once she was in her chamber, she sat by the fire with a book in her hand, skimming its binding as she stared aimlessly at the winter scenery ahead. Tomorrow, Varya would have to attend the ball, and the sense of dread following her was surreal. The plan was not seamless, and she found herself doubting it multiple times.

Nevertheless, she put those worries aside and opened the book, going directly to the section on _mavkas_. She read the same information she had always known, that they were lost souls that had died premature deaths, and that they often lured men in the woods to slit their throats. However, Varya was no man, and perhaps, that is why the mavka had not bothered concealing its disgusting appearance. Nevertheless, what would it gain out of harassing her?

Unless someone had sent it specifically after her?

Varya continued reading until she reached a new paragraph that described the creature's origins. Mavkas were a widespread occurrence, and yet, their history could be traced back to one single woman— Kostroma, a Russian fertility goddess. The goddess, who had been tricked by the god of fire and goddess of nighttime into marrying her brother, committed suicide by running into the woods and drowning in a lake. And since then, she roamed the Earth and terrorized the souls of men. She was, if one were to define it, the queen of mavkas, their leader, and was known for striking deals with wizards that were powerful enough to pay her price— the death of thousands of men.

And the war would be the perfect opportunity to strike a deal, Varya presumed, so if someone wanted to take control over the creatures, all they had to do was harness the souls of the deceased soldiers, or perhaps, even kill some of their own.

But who could do that? Yes, Grindelwald was always an option, especially since he believed magical creatures to be of greater importance than muggles. However, Varya suspected that the person striking the deal had to be of a darker soul. And as much as the Dark Wizard was a force to be reckoned with, he had no idea what the darkness entailed.

Something was coming, a dark force of the future, and Varya had no idea who it was.


	31. chapter twenty-nine

THE SUN ROSE brightly over the Rosier estate, blazing over the statues that ornated the entrance, waking them up from slumber. It was the morning of Christmas Day, and the blizzard that had taken over the land during nighttime had covered the vegetation with a pristine blanket of snow. The trees that surrounded the hectares of the plot had also been covered in dainty flakes, and the scattered animals that roamed the forests had taken shelter from the cold.

On the second floor of the manor, a window was open, and a girl — as vigorous as the sturdy wood of the pines that covered the horizon — let her legs dangle from the edge, feeling the coldness of the early hour on her pallid skin. She was still dressed in her nightgown, midnight hair pulled away from her face in a sophisticated braid, and her eyes were closed as she let the dim rays of sun hit her overheated flesh. Her lips were pulled in a serene smile, and her heart pumped blood through dilated veins as her brain released more serotonin than usual.

After all, it was the first Christmas morning that Varya Petrov would spend in the sunlight.

Then, out of nowhere, she felt a snowball hit her flat in the face, and she yelped as she commenced to fall backward, only to be suspended mid-air by a spell and be brought back to the edge of the window. Varya wiped the snow off her dress, flinching at the cold sensation, then threw a noxious glower towards Renold Rosier and Nicholas Avery. They were both outside, dressed in thick coats and extravagant scarves, and seemed to be coming back from a morning walk.

"Merry Christmas, you little vixen," yelled Avery, his hands on the sides of his mouth to propel the sound, "now, mind joining the rest of us for breakfast?"

Varya rolled her eyes, then leaped inside her room, heading to one of her trunks. She had not unpacked, too lethargic to deal with it, and so she had to rummage through her clothes to find suitable attire. Once the girl got dressed, she headed down the main staircase, and as she reached the middle balcony that overlooked the foyer, she stumbled into Tom Riddle, who was still shaking out the sleep from his orbs.

It was uncommon to see the boy so unguarded, as he pressed the end of his palms against his eyes to wake himself up, then gave a hearty yawn that signaled he had not slept very well, as if his thoughts had kept him up. His hair was a bit more disordered than usual, and he hastened to properly do his tie as he stomped down the stairs, hands a bit jittery.

"Riddle," greeted Varya, heading to the half-awake boy with swift steps, almost as if she was pulled by an invisible string, "did not get enough sleep?"

Tom's eyes were hooded over, and he gave her a distressed look as he shook his head, still fumbling with his tie in frustration, "Oh, for Merlin's sake!"

"Let me," the girl sighed, and before she discerned what she was doing, her hands flew up to his neck, placing the tie carefully around it and gripping at its edges. Tom halted, and in his tired state, he only processed fidgety hands and the citric fragrance that he had grown used to, his mind still fuzzed over from the lack of sleep. He watched her face as it scrunched in concentration, tying the knot as if she had practiced it multiple times, a strand of hair sticking out from her braid and trailing down the nape of her neck and dropping to her collarbone. His hands tingled. She finished the tie. "There you go."

He seized her wrist without thinking, and the girl let a small breath past her lips as she looked at where his skin touched her, and her cavity filled with the fluttering of brittle wings as her blood elevated to her cheeks. Then, almost as if shaking himself out of it, he dropped her hand by her side, biting the inside of his cheek.

Varya met his eyes, and the sobriety in them almost made her take a step back. Tom Riddle was gazing at her with a look she had never seen before, almost as if she had been reborn in his eyes. There was something so captivating about him, and she wanted to reach out to touch him again. They stood there for a few seconds, both unsure what to say, before Tom grumbled something and headed down the last few steps of the stairs and into the dining room.

The girl let out a melancholic sigh, and her arms went around her body, an indescribable sensation of coldness taking over as the boy left her surroundings. Her heart drummed in her chest as Varya thought about the boy, and a fervent sensation engulfed as she trailed the part of the wrist that he had touched. She shook her head with a sardonic chuckle, then made her way to where breakfast was being served.

Rosier's parents were nowhere in sight, probably preparing for the festivities that would start that night, and Varya sat down as far away from Riddle as possible. Icarus gave her a tender smile as he took the seat next to her, and out of nowhere, pulled a small box with a ribbon on top. He placed it on the girl's plate, then gestured to it.

"For you," he said shyly, and then turned his head away, not wanting to see her reaction.

Varya frowned in puzzlement, then picked up the package with sensitive fingers, and pulled at the ribbon until it came undone. She opened the box; then, her eyebrow went up in surprise at the pair of silver earrings that stood inside, a sly lynx carved on the circular silver drops.

"This is too much, I—"

"Nonsense," declared Icarus, a blush coating his scarred cheek, "The tailor told me your dress was silver, and I thought they would fit you well. It is nothing, truly, but if you do not like them—"

"No, they are delightful. Thank you, Icarus," Varya beamed at him, then peered down at the jewelry with fondness. He had taken the time to customize them for her and had given her a present despite the fact that he was not supposed to.

She glanced at Tom, who was watching her from the corner of his eyes, and she felt a different kind of feeling overtake her, something that was a mixture of guilt and sorrow. Why was it that whenever Icarus approached her, she would immediately let her mind wander to the Slytherin prince, and then a feeling of shame would overtake her? The truth was right on the tip of her tongue, and yet she could not let herself admit it.

"I will come to your door at seven, the party should begin by then, and we can walk together if that is something you would like," he stated, scratching his neck as he avoided her eyes. Sometimes, Varya wished that he had more confidence when approaching her.

"Of course," she responded, and there it was again— the shame.

To avoid further conversation with the boy, Varya stuffed her mouth with the eggs from one of the platters in front of her and tried to get them down her throat despite the odd constriction of her esophagus. She picked up a small napkin and started tearing it up due to her tsunamic nerves, anxiety taking over her being.

Merlin, why was she reacting like this? Her eyes kept flickering to Tom, who was only gawking at his full plate, mind somewhere far away, and for a moment, she hoped she could read his thoughts. He blinked fast, then elevated his head to meet her stare again, and he seemed to breathe slower, a small crease between his eyebrows.

Nicholas Avery walked in later than the rest, and threw himself on the chair across her, eventually attracting her attention, then gave her a small salute. His shoes were muddy, sign that he had been out in the forest and beyond the estate, and the girl wondered what the boy could be looking for so early in the morning.

"The marbles," he began, speaking openly as there were no other people besides the Knights and Varya in the room, "you left them at my door in a bag, and I have them in my coat for tonight. I will pass them off to Lopheus, and when all is done, we will send you a signal."

"If you need our help—" started Icarus, but Varya raised her hand. She did not mean to come off as harsh, but her mind told her that this was the moment to prove her worth, and so it was better that she handled it alone despite all.

"I will be quite all right, thank you. I can handle myself surely, and besides, it is best that I meet them alone. They will be more inclined to talk," she answered, passing Avery a plate for his breakfast. He thanked her, then dove into the food as if he had been ravenous for days.

Icarus nodded, although he still despised the idea. With what they had found out the previous night about Varya, there was only a matter of time before danger would start looming over her, and when that time came, she would need reinforces by her side. It was not something she was meant to handle alone, and he wanted to be by her side through the darkest times.

"Just be careful," he mumbled, and he felt guilty over not being able to tell the girl the truth, but he knew his loyalty to Riddle could not be broken. More so, it was for her own good that she did not find out from them, but rather figure it out by herself.

Varya thanked him, then got up from her seat, heading towards the door. The witch felt his eyes on her as she walked away, but something told the girl that if she turned around to meet them, she would end up muttering words she did not mean, and so the door shut behind her frame. Her wrist still tingled.

She meant to visit the Rosier library before the party, as the witch aimed to see if she could find out more about wizards that had used magical creatures to do their bidding. Of course, that was not something she could find in her book on demonic creatures, as it related more to the history of wizards, and so she needed to look through the Rosier collection.

As she entered the great library, Varya could not help but be impressed by the countless books that adorned the walls. Because the library was in a tower, there was a spiral staircase in the middle of the room that led to the multiple levels of the shelves, small balconies extending for each section.

She heard footsteps coming from the row above her, and sure enough, Maxwell Nott was on the floor with a plate of untouched food beside him, eyes drifting through the parchments as he bit his lips in worry. His hair was ruffled, and much like Tom, he did not seem like he had gotten much sleep.

"You look half-dead," tittered Varya as she approached him, and the boy jumped at her voice, quickly scrambling to pick up his readings and stack them behind him, "What are you hiding?"

Nott only gave her a cold glare, and Varya jeered. Although by now, she was used to his refusal to speak to her, it still bothered her when she asked him something directly, and yet he would not bother answering. They had only ever directly talked to each other in the carriage at Hogwarts, and even that had been around other people. For some reason, the boy had always been recalcitrant around her.

"All right, what is your deal? You act as if speaking to me will have you grow serpents instead of hair," she said, sitting on the floor across from him. She made to grab at one of his papyruses, but the boy aimed his wand at her.

"Mind your business," he growled.

"Ah, so you can speak to me after all, there we go," she breathed, then looked around the library, "I need your help."

"Why would I help you?" he questioned, irritated. He had better things to do and did not enjoy being commanded around by someone other than Riddle.

"Because I said so, and because your mighty leader allowed me to order your around in exchange for my own help," remarked Varya, then got up and instructed him to do the same. She had lost patience with the boy a long time ago.

Maxwell scowled at her, but got up with a grunt, knowing that the longer she was in his presence, the more likely it was he would find out about the subject he was reading on, "What is it?"

"I need you to get a book on the history of bloodlines and their correlation to magical creatures," she said, and Nott's eyes widened. Even so, he composed himself quickly, and cleared his throat as he made his way toward a different section in the library, the Slavic witch following closely behind.

Should he help her with this? Was it not a risk, considering— but then again, perhaps, in some way, it was better that she looked into it. After all, Tom wanted to use her powers to their benefit, and unless the witch became aware of their secret, she would never fully let herself embrace it. So he stopped in front of a row full of history books on dark creatures and picked a title that he had spent the whole night taking notes of, then passed it to the girl.

"That was quick," she muttered suspiciously, but Nott only shrugged.

"I grew up in this library, I know almost every book," half a life, it would take him his whole life to read every book in the Rosier Manor, but he did not oppose the idea. There was nothing better to do with his existence that pursue knowledge, after all.

Varya thanked him, then let him go back to whatever it was that he was doing, and headed to a completely different part of the library to read. On the fifth balcony, she found a small sofa chair by a stained window that showed a beautiful mermaid splashing in the sea, and sat down to begin her lecture.

The book was odd, and Varya was slightly confused as to why Nott had given it to her. She had asked for a lecture on dark beings and their dealings with the wizarding world, and yet the boy had passed her a book on blood lineage of some of the most ancient families. She opened the index, eyes skimming over the names, and she frowned when she saw that one of them had been underlined.

 _Salazar Slytherin_ , page fifty-three.

The girl flipped pages until she reached the specific chapter, wondering why it had been marked, and as her jaded eyes skimmed over the page, something caught her eye. The Gaunt family lineage was sprawled over a whole page, ending with the name of Merope Gaunt. A line was traced from her, leading to an heir that had been marked off of the book, but the father's name was still on the page.

_Tom Riddle, Senior._

Her heart beat faster, and she tossed the book to the floor, almost as if it had scorched her hands. No, it was impossible, there was no way Tom Riddle was the heir of Slytherin. However, it made so much sense— that is why the descendants of the Sacred-Twenty Eight were loyal to him; that is why they acted as if he was some sort of god.

Because, to them, he was a demigod, a descendant from the man that had established their House and beliefs. Tom Riddle was the picture child for the Slytherin house, admittedly a tad dark, and yet his ambition and cunningness were undoubtful. Varya kneeled to the floor, picking up the book and opening it to that page yet again. She looked at the picture of Salazar Slytherin, a reptilian face that carried cunningness and resolve, and her eyes were drawn to an object that hung from his neck— the locket she had stolen from the shop.

A family heirloom, something that Tom probably recognized in the store, and when Burke had refused to sell it to him, he had grown incredibly angry, probably plotting his painful demise. So, how would the boy react if he found out that Varya had stolen it and hidden it away from him?

She considered an option— giving it back— but her head hammered with instinct, and something told her that it would be a disastrous idea. There had to be something more to this, a reason for which Riddle was so hellbent on acquiring it.

Varya got up, glancing around the library, and put the book on a nearby table, heading to her room in a hurry. She did not know what Tom was planning, but almost as if a guiding voice was whispering in her ear, she knew that she was supposed to hide the locket from him as far as possible.

Maxwell Nott watched her leave the library, a small smirk on his face, but what the boy did not know was that he had made a grave mistake. In his hurry to encourage Varya to look at a book about magical beings that relied on wizards for survival, he had handed her the wrong volume and had unknowingly exposed a secret that would cost their cause immensely.

Varya ran down the hallways, ignoring the odd looks she received from the elves, and opened the door to her chamber, slamming it behind her with furry. She went to her jewelry box, taking out the coverage that led to the secret compartment, and picked Slytherin's locket from inside. She gulped as she held it in the open, and threw a glance over her shoulder to make sure nobody would see her. The witch was playing a dangerous game, and she knew that if Riddle were ever to find out what she was about to do, Europe would no longer be safe for her.

The witch stuffed it in her cloak and headed out the door. She took the back exit, knowing very well where she was headed. Nevertheless, her journey was stopped as she encountered Elladora Selwyn.

"Where are you going, Petrov?" the redhead inquired, approaching the girl as she came from one of the trails that lead to the woods. "You look quite flustered."

Varya glared at her, then tried to walk past, but the girl's hand flew out and caught her by her robe, dragging her back.

"I asked a question, and you look quite suspicious right now, and so I would prefer if—"

She did not have enough time to finish her sentence, as Varya took out her knife and knocked its handle into her skull, sending the girl flying to the ground and out cold, "That is for poisoning me, you wench."

Then, she took her wand out and rapidly cast the Obliviate spell on the body, knowing that it was better to cover her tracks. At most, Elladora would wake up with a nasty bruise and in a confused state, and even if she ever suspected it had been Varya to knock her out, she would have no proof of it.

The eastern witch scoffed at her passed out the figure, and bit back any type of remorse she had for the awful girl, then continued to make her way into the woods, disappearing from the eyes of anyone who had seen her.

She paced through the trees in a rush, moving branches as she went off the trail and into the general direction that Icarus had pointed to when they stood at the charmed entrance of the Rosier Manor. Although she could now see the vast estate, the woods were still the same, and that meant that the ghosts would still be here.

Surely enough, she felt the temperature drop once she reached a small clearing of the forest, and between the rocks scattered amongst the frozen river stood restless spirits. They looked at her with a menacing glare, and Varya's heart beat faster as she approached them, ignoring the paranoia that started to settle in her bones.

It was not uncommon that in the presence of spirits that had had premature deaths and haunted their departure place, one would be hit with a severe feeling of paranoia. That is why whenever Varya sat alone in a room, and she suddenly felt watched, she knew there was a ghost sitting right behind her. It happened quite often, as ghosts tended to roam the Earth freely, and most were not ready to accept their death just yet.

"I do not mean any harm," she panted once she was a few meters away from them, "I need your help."

One lonesome ghost stood out from the crowd, and approached her in wonder, inundated face looking at her with awe. It was a woman, perhaps a few years older than the girl, and half of its face has been blown off, exposing its mandibula and cheekbones. No doubt, the woman had been a victim of the First World War bombardments, and although Varya's heart went out for her suffering, she could not help but recoil at its touch. It reached out for her face, then let the coldness of its dead finger trace the girl's chin until they reached her ear, where a silver earring dangled, "So pretty."

Its voice was faded, almost a whisper, and its translucent being stood in front of Varya as the girl started again, "I need you to hide something for me, keep it safe so that nobody can ever find it."

The ghost tilted its head, and Varya could see the exposed muscles in its face elongating, but she bit back the bile that almost rose to her throat, "You make dealings with spirits, child? Then you know, a price must always be paid..."

"I know," breathed Varya, although part of her had wished her teachings at school about pacts with spirits had been false. Wizards had always reached out to spirits to do their bidding before spiritualism was banned in most countries, so much so that eventually the other realm had decided to make a rule— you could ask for their help, but you always had to pay a high price. Sometimes, it would not be worth it, and non-corporeal beings could easily trick you. "Hide this locket from anyone that ever seeks it, make sure that nobody can retrieve it except me, and I will give you whatever you want."

The ghost cackled, jawbones repeatedly smashing against each other on open display, then gave her a sinister sneer, "Very well, my price is the radiance of your smile, and the light in your eyes. From now on, whichever man looks at you for your beauty, will find himself to admire it half as much."

Varya's eyes carried an internal conflict, unsure of whether she should accept the bargain or not. A hefty price, and yet she knew that the locket would be kept away from Riddle until she knew of his plans, and if they were treacherous in nature, it would be hidden forever, with no way to be traced.

Varya Petrov had always been a selfish being, a person who had been taught that her own needs should come above everyone else, and when she had accepted Albus' task, she had done it only because she wanted to escape Scholomance.

At any point, she could have backed out, told the Professor that it was too big of a burden, and yet her vanity had made her keep trying, her fascination with Riddle only going more vigorous each day. She wanted to best him, to outwit him in every single way, and crumble his arrogance once and for all.

Now, it was something else that fueled her, a deep emotion that wanted to surface more than ever. Firstly, for her friends, whom she had grown attached to, and even to the Knights, who had proven to be capable of loyalty and camaraderie between them. Although not all of them had taken kindly to her, some had been willing to fight alongside her or help her with Riddle's mission.

Secondly, she wanted to do it for Tom. When she had come to Hogwarts, he was nothing but a dark shadow that walked the corridors, an authoritative figure that could command a room with the simplest gesture. He had done terrible things to her, had caused so much pain that Varya did not know if she could be whole again, and had left a gaping hole in her soul.

Now, it was precisely because of that hole that she had developed such entangled thoughts of the boy, that made Varya see that Tom needed to be changed desperately and that he deserved a life of compassion and light, not only the grotesque darkness. Moreover, when he had started opening to her, and when he had not murdered her on the spot for putting a knife to his throat or told her the name of his deceased mother, Varya had seen hope, and she wanted to cling on to that.

And then there were the things she could not admit to herself— the speediness of her heart when their skin touched, the way her eyes always sought out for him in a room, or how she had debated buying a scented candle that reminded her of him. But those had been done unconsciously, and the girl was still very much aware of the truth behind her "fascination."

Because of that, she found herself nodding to the spirit, and as she passed her the necklace, she felt a chunk of her as it was ripped out from her being, and the eastern girl lost a part of her beauty in that moment.

"Very good, very good," the spirit susurrated, "we will keep it safe, and if you ever come back for it, just ask for Amalie Bisset."

With that, the spirits retracted from the clearing, and the rays of the sun started peaking through the clouds again, hitting Varya's face. The girl swallowed harshly, unsure of whether she had acted correctly.

The locket was gone— well, at least until she would come back for it, and part of her knew that one day it would end up with its rightful owner, Tom Riddle, but only when the boy would have given up his conquest for nefarious glory. If there was still hope for redemption, that locket would be provided in good faith.

And Varya would not know this at the time, but it had been that decision that had made another shift in the time vail because with the locket gone, there would never be a cave filled with Inferi, or a trial to get the locket, and without those things, the soul of a teenage boy by the name of Regulus Black would not be taken.

The girl turned around, and made her way back to the manor, shoulders sagged in desolation. When she reached the back door again, she noticed that Elladora was no longer on the ground, and could only assume that the girl had woken up and went inside.

She entered the house and noticed that the clock on the wall showed that there were only two hours left until the ball. Because of that, House-Elves had started running around the floors in a hurry, trying to prepare everything as fast as they could. Garlands were being carried across the corridor, and she could see a few elves moving furniture to make the entrance more spacious. In particular, one House-Elf was swinging from a chandelier, trying to clean up every speck of dust from its dangling jewels.

"Miss, please go prepare," screeched one, then pushed Varya to the stairs, and the girl sighed before heading to her room.

She did not want to prepare, as her mind was still a mess because of the information she received. Tom Riddle was the heir of Salazar Slytherin— but what exactly did that mean? There had to be more to the story. There was a part that she was missing altogether, and the girl knew it would drive her insane until she could figure it out.

After bathing, she hurried to pick up the dress that the Rosier tailor had left on her bed, and smiled as she felt its glittery silver fabric. It was a beautiful dress, sophisticated, and it reached the floor in a long train. There were no sleeves this time, only thick straps that hung off of her shoulder loosely, meeting in the middle in a V-neckline, clasped together by an embroidered sigil of a lynx. The material around the waist was tight, and when Varya put it on, she almost struggled to breathe.

She let her hair fall in waved over her back, only pulling half of it up in a hair-do as she braided her front locks and pinned them back. Then, she added silver leaves along the strands, making it look like a crown. Lastly, she clasped Icarus' earrings in her ears, letting them shine in the light.

Just as she was done, a knock sounded on her door, and her eyes darted to the clock. It was time for Icarus to pick her up. Varya headed to the entrance, and opened the door slowly, standing before Lestrange, who was dressed in a fashionable tux.

He raised an eyebrow at her face, "Are you unwell?".

Varya bit back a grimace, and ignored the painful tug at her heart as she realized the meaning behind the boy's question— her beauty had been halved, and he had taken notice to it, which meant that Icarus had valued her appearance above all else. It was a painful notion because although the girl had not fallen for him as he had, she had taken a liking to the boy in some way.

"I am fine, can we just go?" she mumbled, grabbing his hand and heading out the door as she hid her face from the boy.

Icarus followed her, and they stopped right before the balcony of the staircase, as Varya saw the rest of the Knights waiting on the steps. Elladora seemed well enough, although Varya could notice the overly powdered area on her temple, probably an attempt to cover the purple bruise.

Maxwell was leaning on the staircase's rail, glancing over at the guests as they had begun to enter through the main entrance, and Abraxas Malfoy was chatting with Nicholas Avery a few steps down.

Renold Rosier stood by the entrance, greeting the attendees cheerfully, and he engaged in polite small talk as the multitude of wizards and witches passed his house's threshold.

Then, Varya's eyes met those of Tom Riddle, who was looking at her much as he always had, his eyes a mix of intrusiveness and hatred, but as she started making her way towards the group while holding Lestrange's arm, something shifted in them.

And they carried the slightest hint of warmth.


	32. chapter thirty

TOM WATCHED HER come down the stairs in her moonshine gown, hair pulled back as her noble face was on full display. Her eyes carried an intellectuality he had never seen in another woman, and her body moved with royal presence. In another life, she could have been one of the Graces, so effortlessly beautiful that it could drive any man insane, and in this one, so wickedly talented that she could have anyone gravel at her feet.

Her beauty was spun by the spindle of anguish, and it was rooted from a soil that allowed nothing to grow from it— the grief in her eyes, the way they dulled in the light of the chandelier, and yet carried wisdom that spluttered above the waves of darkness and desperation.

Varya was on the arm on Icarus Lestrange, and as they walked down the stairs, the rest of the group patted the boy on the back like rapacious hyenas watching a sacrifice. It irritated Tom, and he wondered if any of them genuinely saw how bright the witch was, how she was far superior to any other girl in the room. He stood by the bottom of the stairs and waited for her to come down.

He felt impatient, almost as something was pulling at him, and he frowned when he felt a sensation in his chest, something fiery that he had only felt in his most profound moments of hatred. Tom glanced up at the girl in confusion— did he truly despise her this much? Enough to feel like flames were completely engulfing his whole body. He did not understand.

When Varya reached the marble floor, her eyes immediately went to him. The boy carried a perplexed look in his eyes, but then immediately composed himself, and nodded, a signal that the objects had been planted. Varya looked at his suit, the first one that fitted him like it had been designed on his body, and the way his hair was slightly pulled back to reveal the diamond-edged face.

The girl bit her lip, then turned her face away from him swiftly, not wanting the boy to have the same reaction as Icarus to her diminishing appearance. A part of her knew that Tom could appreciate beauty objectively, and that he might find himself disappointed in her look of dismay, and her heart could not take the throb of rejection.

She stepped with Icarus into the ballroom on the ground floor, and her eyes widened to the size of teacups when she saw the grandeur of the event. High ceilings were covered in chandeliers that dropped of crystal, and they had been charmed to display swirling galaxies and stars. The room was decorated with extravagant ornaments, long swirls of snowflakes, and icicles. Waiters walked across the room, with platters full of delicious appetizers, and an orchestra played effortlessly in the corner of the room.

"Lovely, is it not?" stated Elladora as she stopped by the pair, looking at them with jealousy from the corner of her eye. The girl was wearing her signature devil red, hair pulled in a tight bun with flowers dangling from the center. She gave Icarus a small smile while completely ignoring Varya, then proceeded to walk forward, Nicholas Avery by her side. The boy gave the Eastern witch a taunting smile as he passed, so volcanic in nature, and Varya barely caught a glimpse of the knife in his boot as he walked.

There was a sense of finality taking over Varya as she scanned the room, and she knew that tonight things would change for her, she just did not know how yet. She glanced at Icarus, who was serene and composed, and wondered if the boy would still be by her side at the end of it all.

"I ought to find Lopheus Evergreen," said Varya, and detached herself from Icarus at once, suddenly being able to breathe better. The boy gave her a confused look, probably having expected at least a dance before his date succumbed to her masochist tendencies, but besides a frustrated sigh, he did not try to stop her. There were things he could not control, and the hurricane of Varya Petrov was one of them. Sometimes, it was better to let forces of nature just run their course, and wait patiently to clean up the mess.

Varya walked the floor eagerly, eyes scurrying over every corner until they found a boy sitting by himself next to the glass doors that led to the garden, champagne flute in his hand. And when their eyes met, she knew she had found the notorious Lopheus.

He was around her age, perhaps a few years older, and he had striking blonde hair, although nothing compared to that of a Malfoy. He was skinny, exceptionally so, and was wearing his dress shirt with a few buttons open, no tie whatsoever, carrying a devious smirk that all of Riddle's followers seemed to have. His arrogance was more evident when he pulled out an unlit cigarette, and with a swift motion, let it burn as he dragged from it aggressively.

"I do not think the Rosiers would appreciate if the smell of tobacco stuck to their walls," said Varya as she approached him pridefully, arms clasped before her.

Lopheus puffed his cigar, then blew the smoke towards the ceiling, smirking as it flew upwards. Then, he gave her a once over, "Varya Petrov, I presume, such a delight to finally meet you. That boy, Lestrange, has been going on and on about your lovely self. I must agree with him, although I will say this— you are no delicate flower, and it is actually your sadness that brings you admiration."

Varya gave him a smile, although it was not the sincere kind, then took the cigarette from his lips and crushed it on the floor, "Have you Americans no manners? It is impolite to smoke in the presence of a lady. Perhaps, you will find the gardens to be a more suitable space."

The boy understood her message— they needed to talk in private. He gestured for her to walk ahead once he opened the door, and they stepped outside in the December air, closing the entrance behind them. They put some distance between themselves and the party, and only stopped walking once they were sure they were beyond everyone's hearing capability.

The gardens were vast, and Varya could imagine that they bloomed effervescently in the spring, and that the perfume of flowers traveled across the estate in peaceful breezes, the kind of calmness and beauty one would contemplate over.

"I managed to slip the marbles into the pockets of Carrow, Wilkins, Bellchant, and MacDuff. Now, we know that the Carrow and MacDuff family have had members openly support Grindelwald, that is beyond doubt, but the people attending today are in a different branch of the family tree," remarked Lopheus as he pulled out another death stick, putting it between his lips. Such a vicious habit, but the boy was a walking memory at this point, and he had seen enough not to fear death, but regard it as eternal rest.

Varya frowned but ignored the reek of tobacco and continued his idea, "And Tom wants to know if the whole family is loyal to Gellert or is it was just a fluke, I presume. Very well, I will talk to them."

The witch stared out into the forest, heart thudding as she remembered that she had hidden the locket in there only a few hours earlier, and she hoped that the vow would not be broken. There was still the possibility of Tom finding out. By now, Burke should have noticed that it was missing, and although he could not accuse Petrov of anything, it would be quite evident that it had been one of the two Hogwarts students. Moreover, when Tom returned for the necklace, and Burke told him...

"Wilkins and Bellchant are odd," continued Evergreen, sitting down on a bench beneath a statue that showed Salazar Slytherin, "You will have to be more forward with them, but it should not be a problem with the curses you have placed— impressive magic, by the way, unlike anything I have seen before."

"Thank you."

The boy looked at her and let a small sigh escape past his lips. Varya Petrov reminded him of someone he once used to know— his sister. A terrible and brilliant witch, one that had made the wrong choices in her life, and had found herself locked up in a mental asylum up in the Sweedish mountains. They shared the same fiery eyes; the maddened need to prove themselves and stand out as powerful women. He could only hope the similarities ended there.

"Well, I will let you enjoy your night, Petrov, and if you find yourself in need of assistance, you will most likely find me by the alcohol. It was a pleasure meeting you, and I hope to see you around more," said the boy, before he slightly bowed to the girl and left her alone in the cold air.

The night extended in time and space, and so many twists were put in place, some that could change the future beyond repair, and some that could potentially brighten it. It was almost as if the air pulsed with electricity, and the alternate dimensions clashed against each other, making a mess of the current timeline.

Varya closed her eyes, and for the first time in a while, she took a moment for herself. She breathed in deeply, feeling the air expand her lungs, and push against her cavity. She felt her mind lighten, and the tremor in her hands disappeared as she let calmness take over. She exhaled.

The eastern witch pivoted on her feet and headed back to the party, where the first dance had only just begun. Multiple couples paraded the floor, twirling and bowing, exchanging flirtatious glances and soft touches. Nicholas Avery had ditched Elladora Selwyn at a table, preferring to engage in discussion with Lopheus Evergreen by the bar. Maxwell Nott stood right behind them, although he was staring off into space, feet slightly tapping to the rhythm of the classical piece. One could tell they were scheming, and Varya noticed the way Nott casually let his eyes wander around the room, almost as if looking for a target.

Abraxas Malfoy was sitting beside his parents at a table, the only ones of the group who had managed to attend, and right next to him was Tom Riddle, who was engaging in ample dialogue with the adults.

The girl scanned the salon with her eyes until they fell on a stern woman by the buffet, who was so stiff that she could have passed off for a statue— Sylvia Carrow. Varya cleared her throat, and headed toward her rapidly, briefly letting her eyes meet those of Abraxas Malfoy's as he nodded at her with encouragement.

Sylvia Carrow noticed her, and her eyes narrowed at her figure once she stood in front of the woman, "May I help you?".

She was looking down upon the girl, almost as if she was a nasty roach that had bothered her presence. Her voice was screechy, and it carried a note of arrogance in it, something that Varya could attribute to her curse, but much preferred to assume it came naturally for the rigid woman, "Pleased to meet you, I am Varya Petrov."

The lady's eyes doubled in size as she heard the name, and her champagne glass slipped from her hand, only for Varya to easily make it hang in the air with a spell. She brought it back up to the woman's hand, then gave her a condescending smile. If all went according to plan, Carrow would be a babbling mess before her in no time, as the marble toyed with her thoughts, making her ill-tempered and boastful. All the young witch had to do was light the fuse with a bit of defiance, and the pureblood would crack.

"Petrov— that is impossible; they are all _dead_ ," she gasped in sham innocence. However, as her eyes landed on the lynx on Varya's earrings, she pulled her eyebrows in a stupified expression, "You have been hiding, you impertinent child."

"Impertinent?" Varya charged, mocking confusion and hurt, "Oh, you make it seem as if my disappearance rattled your plans."

The woman's face contorted in fury, and she found herself sending a small signal to someone across the room. Varya tried to turn around and glance, but she felt a firm grip on her arm, and then she was pulled back to face Carrow's crooked nose. The lady had grown livid, and dread started to settle in Varya's guts. Something was wrong.

A man that Varya recognized as Richard MacDuff made his way to them, trying to settle the two women down, as they had started attracting quite a few stares, "What in Merlin's name are you doing, Sylvia? Release the girl."

"No, Richard, I do not think you understand, this girl is the Petrovs' child."

The man seemed to pale, and then, his features morphed into something evil, "Is that so?" he asked, smirking at the child. "My, my, what a surprise. We have been looking for you."

He towered over the teenager, with a neck so long it was almost comical, and a hairline that had started falling back ferociously. His suit jacket was tight on his body, the buttons barely holding it closed, because his shoulders were so broad Varya doubted any tailor could possibly design a vest correctly. MacDuff had a strong Irish accent, and his blue eyes were filled with atrocity as he gazed at the young lady.

"What are you talking about?" gasped Varya, trying to pull away from Sylvia's hands, but the witch was stronger and had sunk her dirty nails in her skin to keep her in place. The girl looked around the room desperately, but the second dance of the night had begun, and she saw most of the Knights twirling around the dance floor.

Had they not said that they would help her? And yet they had started mingling freely, barely paying attention to where she had disappeared. Even Icarus, who had repeatedly expressed concern for her safety, was now twirling Elladora around the floor, her dress a tornado of carmine.

"Do not act daft, you little wench," spat Carrow, then pulled at Varya's hair slightly, making her eyes meet those of Sylvia's, "Words of your reappearance had begun circulating months ago, the wicked little witch, and when we heard you could be at this event...but we did not dare believe...No, there was no way the skies had blessed us as such."

Richard pushed them behind a pillar, then pulled them into an empty hallway, obstructed from the public view, and placed his wand to Varya's neck, pushing it against her artery, "When you disappeared from your academy, Grindelwald was not so pleased. He had sent you there for a reason, you see, and yet you managed to escape from his sight. So devious, alas, we have found you."

"What are you going on about? Grindelwald thought me dead-"

"Are you truly that stupid?" laughed Sylvia, and Varya winced as she felt her nails dig deeper. The witch could have easily escaped, blasted them into pieces, and yet she wanted to hear what they knew, as the curse had made them spill all of their secrets, and she knew an opportunity like this might not reveal itself again.

"Look at her, so clueless, MacDuff barked as he grasped the girl's face, "She knows nothing, Sylvia, is that not pitiful? Better so, Grindelwald will surely be pleased to find out you have grown up so well."

"Little slaughter pig! Little slaughter pig!" Sylvia sang in her ear, and Varya felt a wave of nausea overtake her, and there was something picking at her brain, almost like a needle trying to perforate through silk.

"And when we awaken it..."

"When we do!"

"There will be nothing of you left, no— just terror and blood, and we will continue right where we left on, child," challenged MacDuff, alluding to something the girl did not understand.

His tone made Varya feel queasy, and she knew she had heard enough, so she kicked the man between the legs, then twisted her body to smash her head against Sylvia's. The woman yelled out, and her hands flew from Varya's to her forehead. The eastern witch took this opportunity to punch her square in the nose, enjoying the physical sensation of inflicting pain through a mundane method.

Before Richard could regain his wits, Varya elbowed him in the eye, sending him stumbling back. It was only then that she took out her wand and cast a curse on both of them, " _Petrificus Totalus!"._

Their bodies fell to the floor, and Varya slumped against the wall, breathing harshly from the adrenaline, but a pleased smile took over her face. With a flick of the wand, she sent their petrified bodies to one of the broom closets at the end of the hallway, letting the janitor deal with it.

Now, she let her mind wander to the words the two acolytes had uttered— Grindelwald had been the one to send her to the academy. However, that made no sense to the girl, as she vaguely remembered the tales of how she had been brought into the school. Every maiden in the castle had said the same thing— she had been taken in by a lady named Magdalena, a poor muggle that had raised her as a daughter. Yet, when she took notice of the young one's witchcraft, she had sent her to her death, and it had been the Dark Priest that had rescued her.

 _Unless they lied_ , Varya thought. However, she had vivid memories of the woman, of the house she had grown up in, and the fairies that had welcomed her in their small forest clearing. She remembered the smell of Magdalena's cherry pies, and the pain she had felt when she was taken away.

Nevertheless, Macduff had implied that after her parents' death, it had been the Dark Wizard that had sent her to the school. Then, why had he never reached out to her? Why had he left her there for years, and then only begun looking for her once she had disappeared? He must have known she was at Hogwarts, if anything, and yet he had waited for her to resurface into the wizarding world.

It was almost as if he was a puppeteer, and she had been strung along her whole life, always one step behind the Dark Wizard. Varya had never been safe, not for a moment in her life, and he had waited for the right moment to get to her.

Varya grabbed at her head and shut her eyes, as it had begun throbbing painfully, and slammed her fist against a wall, trying to redirect the pain to somewhere else. There it was again, the knock on her temple, the same one she had felt all those months ago whenever Tom Riddle would ask her about her early years, almost as if something was missing.

The girl's eyes flew open, and a gasp of realization hit her at an incredible force. _Her memories had been altered._

She grabbed at a flower pot nearby and emptied her stomach contents in it, dizziness clouding her mind. Varya wiped her mouth in distaste, then winced at the odd sensation in her throat, hating the way it was so tight. Her life, at least most of it, was a lie, and now she felt an existential crisis looming over her head. What was real, and what had been toyed with?

There was only one man that could help her, but he was far away now, still in the Scottish fields— Albus Dumbledore. There was at least a week before Varya could return to the castle, and her only hope was that she would not go insane before that.

She needed to know what was going on; she had so many mysteries surrounding her that never seemed to clear. What was Tom Riddle planning? Why had dark creatures been moving more towards the West? Who was the dark presence they were muttering about? And why had Grindelwald sent her to Scholomance? Somehow, they were all connected to each other, and yet whenever she picked at the threads, they disappeared before she could reach the other end.

Varya hoisted herself off the floor, dusted her silver dress, and then rapidly headed back to the room, where the ball was still in full swing. She scanned the room until her eyes landed on a figure standing alone in the corner.

Tom Riddle was staring at the dancing crowd with an impassive face, head rested in his palm as his fingers tapped against his temple impatiently. He resembled a bored prince watching over his court as they engaged in idle doings, not caring for their ordinary nature or mindless gossip. He was detached, superior, and had no time for what common people preoccupied their days with.

His eyes were darkened, but they still held the force of a typhoon as it crashed over the coast, a maddened swirl of ocean blue and foam, and when they landed on Varya, the girl felt her breath leave her body.

The boy was beautiful, undeniably so, and Varya was exhausted from denying it. He had taken over her mind for the past months, so much so that it had become a fixation, and wherever she went, he was always right behind. She had seen his childhood home, something she doubted many had the opportunity to experience, and had also been on the receiving end of his terrible mood swings many times. He had made her crumble beneath him, only to prove that he could break her, and had had her perform atrocious acts.

So why did her heart fill with warmth when he got up from his seat and started making his way to her, eyes filled with purpose, and why did it shrivel when Icarus Lestrange blocked his way, standing right in front of the girl?

"Care to dance?" he invited, delighted that his partner had resurfaced in the party scene after her disappearance. His eyes flickered to the gashes on her arm, and his soul throbbed with the dullest ache knowing that she had been hurt. He had sworn to protect her, and yet he relentlessly cowered in the face of Tom Riddle and his schemes.

Varya tried to peek over his shoulder, catch a glimpse of the fierce eyes that she knew were still on her, but the boy was too tall, and she did not want to be impolite. After all, he had been the one to ask her to this event, and so the witch found herself placing her hand in his.

"Of course."

He took her to the main stage, and they bowed politely to each other, but as Varya made her way back up, her eyes drifted to Tom Riddle, who was standing at the edge of the dance floor, arms clasped behind his back and a stoic look on his face as he watched her. They were emotionless, almost slightly annoyed, and the girl knew he wanted to send her back to investigating the guests.

The orchestra began to play a song that plucked the thin strings of her heart, and as the violins picked up their pace, mellifluous notes ricochetting off of the grand walls of the Rosier Manor, the atmosphere fell in a soft hush of melancholia and tragedy. The pairs of dancers bowed to each other, and then hands raised in the sir— the softest touch of comfort. Icarus circled her, the admiration in his eyes so overwhelming, and he felt that his life had amounted to this moment— to be with the girl he loved.

"Just like we practiced on the train," Icarus quipped, then pulled her close against him, so much so that Varya felt his perfume, a soft mixture of tangerine and sea salt, and she found that she much preferred mahogany, with its biting woodiness and the promise of a complicated entanglement. Yes, they danced just like on the train, with the clumsy steps of two sixteen-year-olds that belonged to a world that they were never meant to be part of, and yet, it felt so excruciatingly different.

No longer did Varya feel the soft butterflies of affection, nor did her skin heat up where Icarus placed his hands on her waist. And if she had ever looked at the boy with a soft heart, now she could no longer feel what was once there. Not because her feelings had changed, but because something else had grown more substantial, a storm of passion and desire that outrooted the tree of stability.

Icarus twirled her, and their hands met in an awkward pose, neither being skilled at dancing, but the boy did not mind as they continued gliding over the floor. Varya, however, had her mind somewhere else, as she continued to observe Tom with each spin that Icarus made her do.

Once upon a time, she had thought Lestrange to be the man that would take her heart, and show her emotions that she had never experienced before. Varya had truly believed that something would come out of their interactions, and had let her mind trick itself into believing that all this time, it had been him that had given her butterflies. Icarus Lestrange was supposed to be the one that would have tamed her soul.

And yet, it had been Tom Riddle.

Varya bit back a small gasp, and as she swayed in the arms of another man, she let a wave of cold reality take over her being. She looked at the Slytherin prefect, who was still watching her from the salon's shadow, and marveled at the way her heart calmed, and yet her mind swirled. He resembled a demigod amongst commoners, with an intellect beyond some of the brightest minds, and the beauty worthy of Aphrodite's affection.

He was a perplexing being, a paradox of darkness and light. Darkness because he was a macabre being, someone who enjoyed tormenting others to further his agenda, and believed that he was an idealistic anarchist. Light because he was like her other half, someone that understood her pain, and had experienced the same things as Varya had. Someone that could be mended with the right push.

Nevertheless, where were his faults in her eyes? There had to be a reason behind her constant willingness to excuse his wicked behavior, the way she always sought out the faintest hope that one day, perhaps, he could become someone else.

_She was falling in love with Tom Riddle._

Furthermore, it was the kind of love that consumed her ruthlessly, drove her to the brink of madness because it never seemed to be enough. It burned like the pits of Hell in her chest, and messed with her temper and resolve. It twisted her insides, smothering her lungs until the only air that sufficed her panting was the one he breathed.

It had come at her in the smallest moments of silence they had shared in the Room of Requirement, in the faint feeling of his fingers as he traced the back of her neck and the feeble moments where they exchanged forbidden looks in the hallways. It had sneaked up on her until the feeling bubbled like scalding water in a small pot, bursting over everything, and burning ferociously.

There was never a moment where her love began, and it was almost as if it had been something that had bloomed on itself, despite her best attempts at loathing the boy. He was so absolutely wretched in every way, to the point where she graciously acknowledged that the man had probably murdered before, and yet he was the calling to her heart. In a way, it had never been up to her, and her psychology had predetermined that she was to love a sadist man who could never reciprocate.

Because that is what she thought she deserved — not the sincere heart of the Lestrange boy, nor the naive affection of the soldier William Parker. No, only the wholly twisted and malevolent passion of Tom Riddle. Something that burned and consumed itself until there was nothing but ash and smoke, like a beautiful greek tragedy, an odd to the weak-hearted.

She once thought that he would burn in Hell, and that he would rule over the land of the damned with an iron fist that never entirely loosened, and yet she had come to realize that they would dance amongst burning flames together. Both sociopathic in nature, with the unstable mind of children who had faced their own torment, and the unyielding connection to the obscure, the flickering shadows of darkness.

And the song of tragedy hummed by her heart only brought pain with the newfound clarity, because to her soul, Tom Riddle was the missing piece that had been broken off. And yet, it would never be completed, because the man would never be able to understand her feelings.

She had put a dagger to his neck without the intention to kill, and that should have been the moment Varya Petrov realized that Tom Riddle meant more to her than anyone else, because she would not have hesitated to slit anyone else's throat.

"Are you all right, Varya?" asked Icarus, and the girl looked up at him with watery eyes, finally understanding that she would never be able to give back to him what he had offered.

However, she wanted to— she wanted it to be him whom she had fallen so. In an idealistic world, he could have been everything she wanted, the calmness in the center of a hurricane, a boy who was reckless with the world, but so gentle with her. Varya wanted to be consumed by his passion, no— she needed it. Nevertheless, her heart would not follow her mind despite the way it screamed until its throat was bloody.

She needed it so badly that, when Icarus lowered his head towards her, and their lips met in a velvety promise that she could not keep, she did not allow herself to tremble with the sobs that bubbled in her chest. Furthermore, when his arms surrounded her petite waist, pulling her closer in an embrace of passion, she bit back the instinct of pulling away, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Icarus' lips molded to her like the last piece of the puzzle, and yet Varya preferred the mystery of not completing what could have been the most extraordinary love story of time. She craved something else, always wanting what she could not have.

She pulled him closer, wanting to suffocate in tangerine, so contrasting to the softness of mahogany, and kissed him back with fierceness. Their lips moved eagerly, and the other couples danced around the pair as they entangled in a clash of passion— desperation, and love.

But when the girl pulled away, and for a second, her mind tricked her into seeing Egyptian blue instead of the caramel softness of Icarus Lestrange's eyes, Varya Petrov knew that she had been doomed from the start.


	33. chapter thirty-one

THE FOLLOWING DAYS that passed were a blur to Varya Petrov, as she had spent most of her time hiding away in her room, claiming to have fallen ill yet again. The House-Elves brought most meals to her bed, and whenever she was forced to attend dinner, she would arrive just as everyone else was leaving, pick up some food on a platter, and then run back to her chamber, shutting the door behind.

It had been too much for her, realizing that her childhood memories had been fabricated by someone, and that Grindelwald had managed to infiltrate in her life without her being aware. She had always gathered that she was safe, far away from his hold, and yet Varya had been precisely in his den of snakes.

It was mostly Tom Riddle whom she avoided, however, because while she knew a way to get her memories back with the help of Dumbledore, she did not know how to make her infatuation with the reptilian boy go away. It was almost as if she was a fly caught in his well-designed web, and part of her wondered if this was his way of finally shutting the door of her coffin because the feelings that she felt were deadly.

Varya knew that the boy was growing impatient with her, keen to know what had unnerved her during the party, so much so that after kissing unfortunate Icarus Lestrange in the middle of the dancefloor, she had run away from the ball, not even bothering to complete her task by talking to the rest of the guests. And on top of that, he was too intelligent to fall for her lie, knowing very well how the girl acted when she was seriously sick.

Had it not been for Bellatris Rosier's urges for the girl to quarantine herself in her room, her evasion might not have worked, but the mother had had a terrible scare when the influenza pandemic of the winter of 1943 started, infecting some of her staff members. And while it was not enough to kill a witch, it was definitely a safety hazard.

Varya took this time to rearrange her thoughts, to plan. She had a task, after all, and now she was more determined than ever to make Tom Riddle see the light. However, part of her wondered if it was even possible. What did she even believe she was going to do? Make the boy fall for her? That was impossible, and she was well aware of it, knowing that despite Dumbledore's belief that the love potion had not affected his ability to feel, the boy had still developed into a full-blown sociopath.

So, she went on to the next mystery— figuring out what the dark creatures had been restless about. Although her last visit to the library had been lucrative, as she had found out about Tom's origins, it did not bring her any closer to understanding the threat that was approaching.

Therefore, she spent all of her nights finishing the volumes that she had bought from Burke's shop, making detailed notes on everything she had found odd. There was not much, but she had managed to note that the Drekavac was often believed to be the soul of an unbaptized child, and Varya raised an eyebrow. In some way, it was similar to the story of mavkas— lost souls that had been tormented or doomed too early, and now sought revenge on those alive.

To further her investigation, Varya had asked some of the House-Elves to bring her whatever newspaper they could find from the past few months that mentioned strange creatures roaming Western Europe. Sure enough, they had found at least four different sightings of odd beasts and had brought them back to the girl in exchange for fruits from her breakfast.

With every newspaper sprawled in front of her, Varya scanned the descriptions of the creatures and came to a few conclusions.

The beast that had been tormenting the border of Italy was a _Poroniec_ , a creature that resembled a malformed baby, with a colossal head and bulbous eyes, and that stank of death. They were stillborn fetuses, and they sauntered the lands until they could find a pregnant woman or a child, and they then would dig a hole to Hell and drag the unsuspecting humans down with them.

Similarly, the _Mylings_ that had been _terrorizing_ the Spanish fields were also children, but those who had been brutally murdered by their own mothers. They were less malicious, as they only haunted people until they would give them a proper burial, and yet they were just as odious, making many quiver in fear. With broken limbs crawling at the floor, they would throw their bodies on travelers, demanding to be carried to a graveyard, and as the person approached the destination, they would grow heavier on their backs, until it was almost impossible to move forward. Eventually, the _myling_ would kill the human, enraged by their failure.

The last two were not as well described in the newspapers, and Varya could not find any telling of what the creatures actually were, although they seemed to have gone more North than West. If her theory were correct, then they would also be lost souls.

Ultimately, what seemed to connect every puzzle piece was strikingly apparent— death. All of them had died in painful and unfair ways and had come back to haunt the land of the living in search of vengeance.

Thus, Varya had been preoccupied with her task, and it was not until New Year's Eve when she heard someone rap on her door loudly, that she got up from the mess of books and writings, then made her way to the door.

As soon as she swung it open, the girl tried to shut it back, but Rosier was much faster, and so he stuck his foot in the threshold, then pushed with all of his force to completely open the door, eventually outpowering the girl.

"For a sick person, you sure do have strength," he declared, panting a bit at the struggle before entering the girl's room. Varya shut the door, a small sigh leaving her lips.

"Or you are just terribly weak," she teased, and the boy let out a snort at that, shaking his head at her awful humor.

He sat down on one of the chairs, glancing at the open books on the floor, "Oh, dark stuff, my dear. No wonder you have complained of frivolous feelings, even I feel myself getting chilled while looking over those pictures."

"Amusing," the girl replied dryly as she picked up her readings, putting them on the shelves beside the fireplace. Then, she turned back to the boy, "What is it?"

"Can I not see how my guest is faring?" he chuckled, but it died in his throat once he saw her grave look, "Riddle wants to know why you are locking yourself up."

"And he could not come and ask me himself because?"

"Well, you know how he is— always delegating this and that, only doing the tasks he believes to be far above our capacity. Even more so now, considering that it is his birthday—"

"It is Tom's birthday?" Varya questioned, agitated by the idea. For some reason, she had not even thought about the boy having a birthday, almost as if she had assumed he had appeared out of the void, flesh made from the haze of darkness.

Rosier cleared his throat, "Well, yes, it is _Riddle_ 's birthday, but do not make a big deal of it, he hates being pestered, and does not celebrate his aging."

 _Because he is terrified of death_ , Ren deemed, but of course, the girl knew nothing of Tom's ambition and conquest.

Varya nodded, then glanced at the clock, noticing there were still a few hours left of the day.

"Varya," started Rosier, and the girl remarked the tautness in his voice, something that told her that whatever he was about to say might upset her, "What are you doing with Icarus?"

Of course, another person she had been eluding. She knew that what she was doing was wrong, as the boy had never been anything but kind to her, and had loved her in the way she had always dreamed about. It was not his fault that Varya had fallen for someone else, and yet it was him that was being punished for it, because she was too much of a coward to let him go.

"I do not know," she huffed as she sat in the other chair by the fireplace, thinking about the boy. "I think I might not be able to give him what he wants because—"

"Because you love Riddle," breathed Rosier, and at the girl's horrified expression, he snickered, "I could pick up a few signs here and there."

Varya gave him a rueful smile, "I did not want this to happen, I despise myself for it, and if I could change it, I would."

Rosier hummed, and Varya saw something flash across his face, something akin to a pitiable sadness, but he quickly collected himself, then said something that surprised the girl, "Here is the thing, Petrov. There are things in this world that we cannot control— destiny, time, whether it will rain tomorrow—"

"Actually, they used to teach us that as Scholomance," blurted Varya.

Rosier gave her a blank stare, "Of course they did," then, he composed himself and continued, "Love is one of those things, you see. You cannot help whom you fall for. And yes, sometimes it does not make sense, and it will make you stare at the wall for hours trying to pinpoint the moment that tipped you over, the reason you fell in love. However, you will never find an explanation because it happens when you least expect it. You were meant to love Tom Riddle."

"I hate it when you say things like this, Rosier," mumbled Varya as she dragged her knees to her chest, trying to soothe the dull ache of her heart.

"And then there are things that you can control, and what you choose to do with Icarus is one of those. Do not lead him on, Varya. He is a strong boy, but you might just be the one to break him if you are not careful, and he does not deserve that," explained Ren as he poked the fire with a metal bar.

"But what if I can someday come to love Icarus?" she asked in a soft voice, drops already blending in her eyes. She did not want to fall for an emotionless python; she did not want that to be her fate.

"It would be selfish of you to ask him to wait for the mere possibility that, perhaps, years from now, you will be able to move on from Riddle and go back to him," ended Rosier, and the conversation seemed to stop, his words hanging in the air.

However, Varya was a selfish being, and she would not put it past herself to take advantage of such a pure feeling, of someone cherishing her so much. After all, it was only human nature to bask in the veneration of others, and Icarus had treated her like nobody else had. He had put her on a pedestal, and thought her to be beyond the gravity of mistakes, some kind of perfect woman. To everyone else, Varya was simply an odd witch with an affinity for the dark arts, and nobody had appreciated her as Lestrange had.

Nevertheless, Rosier was right, it was unfair for her to lead him on when her heart belonged to another, and as much as it would pain the boy to hear this from her, it was better than the alternative— making him wait, letting him fall harder only for his soul to crash into pieces when she was not there to catch it.

Her eyes went to the clock again, and something took over her as she got up from her seat quickly, then hurried to the mess of clothes on her bed to pick out her coat. She threw it over herself, then dashed out of the door before Ren could even process what she was doing.

Her room was in the eastern wing — the irony of that — and she dashed down the stairs, skipping some steps before running to the western side and halting in front of a door. As soon as she touched it, she felt her breath shake, and her body started tingling everywhere. She stood in front of the entrance, and built up her nerve to knock on it, then waited.

Tom Riddle opened the door, a world-weary look stretched on his fine features, but his eyes swelled when he saw the girl standing before him.

"Hi," she sniffed, then gave him a scanty simper.

The boy gawked at her with no emotion, and he blinked monotonously, "What do you want?".

"I heard that it is your birthday—" Tom tried to shut the door in her face, but the girl stuck half of her body through before he could close it, pushing both of them inside his bedroom.

Tom groaned as he watched the girl struggle to close the door behind her, and with her presence in his chamber, he felt oddly invaded. He glanced around, noticing that everything was in perfect order except for the small corner by the fire, where open books and parchments were scattered. Varya had interrupted his studying.

"Happy birthday!" the girl spoke, her voice warmed as she stood woodenly in her spot. Naturally, she would assume people hug on such occasions, but neither of them was good with physical contact, and she doubted Tom would hesitate to hex her on the spot.

"Thank you," he responded blankly, before pivoting on his feet and making his way back to his research. He sat down by the fire, determined to finish the chapter he had been reading. It was the textbook for Alchemy, the class that Dumbledore would start teaching at the beginning of next semester, and he wanted to make sure he was well ahead of everyone else. After all, tomorrow, they would head back to Hogwarts.

Varya felt out of place as she watched him disregard her for his studies, and the fire that had burned in her skin and determined her to come to see him was close to being extinguished. She approached him tentatively, sitting down in the other chair by the table, and Tom briefly glanced up at her before going back to his book.

What was strange was that Tom was not even bothering to question her on what had happened at the party, what Carrow and MacDuff had told her, and that irked her to the point where she found herself asking the boy, "Why are you not pestering me about the party?"

Tom glanced at her again, impatience flashing in his eyes, and he shut the book forcefully before throwing it by the pile, "I already know what Carrow and MacDuff said," he explained.

"How?"

"We found them in the closet the next day, still petrified, and tortured them until I could use Legilimency on them. It was easier, you had rushed out and charmed your door so that nobody could open it, and we all thought best to give you space," he muttered, but Varya did not buy it, because Tom Riddle did not give people space just because they had experienced something traumatizing. After all, this was the same boy that had used Legilimency on her after poisoning her for months.

There was something else that had been troubling him, and Varya could not quite figure out what. She bit her lip, then pondered what to do for a second, because she knew the boy would not budge from his position. Unless she offered something more challenging than Alchemy.

"New Year's is tonight, I hear that the rest of them are going to a nearby town to celebrate, and it is only fair that we do something," she stated, but the boy only scoffed, leaning against the sofa chair.

"I have no interest in getting drunk," he admitted, and Varya rolled her eyes. Of course, he did not.

"I did not mean that we should join them, but if all leave, then we could wander into the woods, and I will teach you more dark magic spells," she offered, hating how terrible the idea was, and yet Varya wanted to be the one that he would celebrate his birthday with. Furthermore, if she got to show off as well, then it was even better.

Tom hoisted an eyebrow at her, then gave her an incredulous look, "And why on Earth would you do that?".

"Consider it a birthday gift," she answered, and although Tom glared at the word, he got up from his position and picked up his coat and scarf off the hanger. He got dressed quickly, and Varya marveled at the dexterity of his moves, how his curls bounced as the put on his coat, and how his eyes glanced at her for the briefest moment before he gestured towards the door, opening it for her to pass.

They headed out the door, and Varya said they should take the back exit to make sure they would not bump into the rest of the group, who would undoubtedly pester them into coming to the pub with them.

The nights had grown colder as the month of December had come to an ending, and Varya could not believe that once the clock struck midnight, they would be entering a new year. Only four months had passed since she had left Transylvania, and yet her life had been changed entirely. She was no longer the girl that had been desperate to evade Scholomance, and Varya let herself ponder over her development for a few seconds.

Four months ago, she had been a selfish little girl who had used an opportunity to escape a school she thought to be doomed. She was domineering, heedless, and was used to being the best. At Scholomance, nobody had dared defy her amongst her peers, as she had been top of her class for years, and few would stand up to the witch. Varya Petrov had arrived at Hogwarts wanting nothing more than to satisfy her need for redemption, to cleanse her reputation, and make her family name mean something again. She had never experienced friendship, much less kindness, and she had combated every single word that Dumbledore had told her on the train.

Then, she grew spineless, flaccid, and her stature could no longer support the recklessness of the dark witch. Her emotions had become a jumble, and her actions were only fueled by furor and childishness, desperate to prove that she was still the witch she had once been. Along the way, she had managed to memorize a few faces, and had started being manipulated by a certain Slytherin boy, mind too weak to understand what was going on.

Now, Varya chose to think that she had gained her spark back and some more, because she had been taught a few lessons along the way, and her personality had bloomed like a late flower in the month of May. She was still selfish, and would probably continue to be so until the end of her days, and yet, now she had a few other souls that she cared for. Her task was no longer a method to escape, but something that she wanted to see to completion so that the Knights of Walpurgis would continue being the innovators that they were, and yet they would become sensitized to the world that surrounded them.

Moreover, she was falling in love with the boy she was supposed to change— that had been the most unexpected part, along with the revelation that her childhood had been tempered with. Tom Riddle had been her weakness all along, the poisoned apple that she had bitten from, and Varya could only hope that it would not prove to be her demise.

The future was uncertain, and there was still a long path that she had to walk, and yet the eastern witch let herself enjoy this one moment, relishing in the journey she had had so far. With the start of a new semester at Hogwarts, there was indeed a lot to come.

"What are you thinking about?" queried Tom as they entered the forest, noticing how quiet the girl had gotten. She turned her head to him, meeting his scheming eyes, and smiled.

"The past few months and the change they had brought," she admitted, and then let the boy fall into his own thoughts, enjoying the silence that they had found themselves in.

They reached a small river, and Varya stopped in her tracks, thinking that this was as good as any other place to start. She let herself think for a moment and wondered what she could show the boy that he would find fascinating.

"What is the darkest creature that you can think of, Riddle?" inquired Varya as she circled around the boy, and Tom regarded her as she moved graciously through the snow, dark robe covering her attire, and her hood had been pulled on, covering part of her face.

"Dementors," he started, unsure of where this question was going, "Hounds...demons."

"Those are mere babies compared to the creatures that live in the Carpathian mountains," the girl scoffed, but then she stopped in front of a rock, picking up a small and sharp piece that had been blasted off, "Even so, you are correct, those are dark beings. And what makes them dark is that they channel their energy from dreadfulness— death, sorrow, despair, and fear. When you think about it, however, those creatures...they do not possess such emotions. So they channel it from somewhere else."

"Humans," Tom breathed, following the girl's story effortlessly, and Varya marveled at his quick mind, the way it seemed to connect the dots much faster than the average wizard. It had taken her months to understand this concept, and yet here he was, figuring it out in a few seconds. His brilliance would never fail to surprise her.

"Precisely. Now, if someone were to be able to manipulate such beings, if someone were to, say, channel them in a nefarious manner, and cultivate them for those creatures, then one might just be able to have them grovel at their feet," she spoke, her speech falling below a menacing snarl as she neared the boy, stepping behind him.

Varya reached out to him, and her finger rested on his neck, where his mortal pulse drummed against the thin skin, and she felt the way it sped up by the slightest fraction. Then, she trailed her hand down his neck, and the girl felt him cement beneath her touch, not moving an inch until her finger went all the way down to his chest. There, she rested her palm carefully, above his beating heart.

"What are you doing?" Tom demanded, his voice more rugged than usual, and he tried to turn around, but the girl only gripped his shoulders forcefully. "Varya?"

She quieted him, and inhaled slowly as she closed her eyes and let her magic hiss through her blood, flowing all the way to her fingers and on to the boy's skin. Without much thought, she infused the nightmare in his mind, letting it plague his most profound thoughts, and she felt the way Tom's heart beat faster as he found himself stuck in a lucid dream of terror.

He remained still, composed, the only notion of the alarm that pulsated through his being was the slight spark of agitation that tickled Varya's skin. She incorporated it, channeling it eagerly, and her craving only grew more potent when she felt the vigor radiating from his skin. He was so dark, so vile; there was such pleasure in the pain that he was feeling.

She let it take over, his own corruption and dignity, and she felt her thrill at the sensation. Yes, there was enough to enslave even the wickedest demons, and there was so much potential for growth.

Her concentration broke as she felt Tom's hand grasp at her own before he pivoted and met her face, eyes enraged with animalistic fury. He shoved Varya off of him, ignoring her maddened cackling at his behavior, almost as if something demonic had taken over her being, something much darker.

"What was that, Petrov?" he growled, clasping her hand in a tight hold as she reached out for him once again, almost entranced. Varya sneered sinisterly, eyes crazed, and she fought against his hold.

"Let me go," she yelled, pulling at his hold, but Tom used his leg to tackle her to the ground, then kneeled by her, holding her down as she trashed on the floor like a rabid animal. Her wrists were in a painful grip, and he had to swing a leg over her to keep her feet from hitting his figure.

"What is wrong with you?" he thundered, but a part of him had begun to panic at the girl's behavior, so uncharacteristic it chilled his blood. His mind was still fogged over from what he had seen, from what the witch had projected into his mind— his death, his defeat, repeated countless times, each one more morbid than the other.

Once, he had been struck down by his own curse and had succumbed to be nothing but a skeletal being, a serpentine figure that was obscured by the shadows. Another time, he was blasted into bits by a boy with emerald eyes and the anger of an untamed lion, someone he did not recognize but had induced some sort of fear in him. Lastly, he had been walking in the ruins of an old cathedral, and the sky had been covered in a green marking that had captivated him, and yet he felt different, lighter. Then, the chamber had grown darker, almost as if a monstrous being had walked in, but it was not until he had heard her voice that he genuinely felt the terror slip through his skin.

_"Missed me, Riddle?"_

Varya had begun panting, and no longer fought against him as her eyes began to clear, awareness taking over her body. She felt as if she had just barely escaped drowning, and her lungs fired upon under the sensation of being suffocated.

"What?" she mumbled as she realized Tom was standing over her, hands clasped around her wrist, and he had the faintest hint of concern in his features.

"What the hell was that, Petrov?" he asked, ignoring the way her eyes searched his face.

"I do not know," she mumbled, then closed her eyes, "I wanted to show you how to channel negative feelings and use them for dark arts, and so I projected a nightmare in your mind, and when you did not react physically, I thought it was not frightening enough. But then I absorbed your fear, and it was so..."

 _So painful_ , Varya thought. It was not even that the boy had been utterly frightened; it was the power with which he tried to suppress it, letting it gather in a nest of his soul to the point in bubbled ferociously. It was almost like the boy was being tortured.

Then, Varya realized the meaning behind it. Tom Riddle was so used to suppressing every feeling, to being a bottomless pit of nothingness, that when she had slipped the faintest nightmare in his thoughts, something that his defense mechanism could not fight at will, his mind had reacted violently. To a boy who had not experienced any genuine feeling, the faintest trace of emotion had been the light to a barrel of gunpowder, and when his mental power was not able to brush it off, his darkness had attacked the girl ferociously.

Her eyes widened as she saw Tom's face dip closer to her, so much so that his breath fanned over her eyelashes, and his mahogany scent was so protruding it made her head spin. One of his hands left her wrist and gripped her face, his thumb pressing severely against her cheeks, while his fingers grabbed at the other side.

His eyes were infuriated, and he let his lips trail her ear lobe as he whispered, "If you ever as much as _think_ about invading my mind again, Petrov, I will break every single bone in your body, I will make you suffer so much you will be _begging_ me to end your miserable life."

Tom's face drifted away slightly, and he watched as Varya gazed at him defiantly. Then, out of nowhere, she grabbed at his shirt, pulling him down so their eyes could meet, "Riddle, I will never beg you for anything, I would rather let myself be tortured until my brain oozes out of my ears. And make no mistake, as much power as you think you have, I possess just as much, and if it ever comes down to it, I will rip you to shreds if you try to lay a finger on me."

They glowered at one another, their breaths mixing in a cloud of fogginess before them, so close that they did not know whom it belonged to. Their eyes struggled against each other. On one side— the proudness of delphinium cores that had been coated in mercury, a mixture of azure and the seafoam that covered the coast after a storm, so poisonous and menacing. On the other side — the laciness of the midnight hour, the soft feather of a raven's spread wings, a symbol of sovereignty and rebellion.

Her cheeks were coated in maiden rogue, and her lips were parted as she panted heavy breaths, watching him with an enthralled gaze. Tom's mind was clouded as he looked at her, at the way her ebony hair was a mayhem of locks against the snow, and her eyelashes fluttered away the small snowflakes that had begun to fall over them. 

He had never been one to feel the troubles of being a teenage boy, as he found most women whinny and enraging. They cared about frivolous things, and few delighted themselves with the wicked feeling of the grotesque and morbid scent of death. And yet as Varya stood below him, Tom's natural human compass oriented itself toward her, and he felt her pulse underneath his hold.

His hand trembled by his side, and he found himself reaching out to her, a tentative finger tracing her pouty mouth, fueled with enough unrecognized desire that it was obscene. It was a natural bodily reaction, where hate's flames burned so brightly that they transfigure into frustration, and that lead to the same reaction as desire. He wanted to overpower her in so many ways, make her squirm underneath his hold.

_Fuck, he hated her so much._

The clock struck midnight, and the sound of a farby chapel's bell-ringing into the night traveled into the forest, loud enough to snap both of them out of their daze, and they both scurried to their feet, unsure of what had just transpired between them. It was Tom that left the forest first, and Varya that stayed behind, watching him leave her yet again.


	34. chapter thirty-two

THE HOGWARTS CASTLE was just as Varya Petrov remembered it, elegant architecture standing amongst rocky edges and guarding a massive body of water. The sense of home, of belonging, enveloped the girl as she walked over the bridge that led to the Middle Courtyard, eager to head back to the Dungeons and throw herself in her bed.

She had taken the Floo Network directly to London, avoiding the Knights as she left the Rosier Manor. After the incident in the forest, she did not think that she could face Tom again, too ashamed to admit how much it had affected her. He had stood over her, so close that she had to stop herself from reaching out to him, and her skin had whirred with his proximity. Although nothing had happened, she knew that it had taken her a fair amount of self-control.

Varya knew that she should have talked to Icarus as well, but it was a conversation that she did not want to have on a night train. Therefore, she left as soon as the sun rose, and while everyone was still fighting their hungover from New Year's Eve, Varya went back to the train station and went straight to the Hogwarts Express.

To make sure that none of her friends or the Knights would come and talk to her, she had sat in a Gryffindor compartment, ignoring the odd looks that the lion-like students sent her way. Was she being a coward? Definitely. Nevertheless, she needed time to herself, something that she had not had in a long time.

So she spent the ride back to the school of witchcraft reading the literature book that Annie Beauchamp had given her as a present— Anna Karenina by Tolstoy. It was a pleasant read, and it made Varya think of the life she could have had if her parents were still alive, which was a thought she liked suppressing.

Now, she was back in the Scottish fields, where the snow had melted, leaving behind a cemetery of nature. The trees had shed their last leaves, and beside the evergreen ones, they resembled sticks of charcoal that had been stuck in dirty mud by whatever deity ruled winter. It was a dry season for Scotland, the kind that even those born in the month of January loathed, where there was more rain than snow, and the violent wind made it almost impossible to promenade the castle's surroundings.

Varya walked into the Dungeons eagerly, embracing the sweet sensation of home, and her eyes adjusted to the emerald glow of the salon. While away, it was easy to forget that she belonged to the Slytherin house, but now, as she walked wearing her forest and silver uniform, she felt more proud than ever.

Her mind went to one boy— the heir of Salazar Slytherin, the epitome of the House's essence. Cunning beyond remorse, perseverent, charismatic with just a hint of darkness that edged over the surface — _good boy, Tom Riddle_ —on his way to becoming Head Boy, and yet with no simple definition of his future, always fueled by an unholy thirst for power. Yes— _little serpent slithering through the cracks, undetected, and killing the innocent mouse in its own home._

Tom Riddle always had his own little game, did he not? His apocalyptic nature could have had him pass off as nothing but a maddened individual, and yet he had designed himself a faux personality, a mask to cover the empty vessel that he was.

Her room was just as she had left it, and she could see the ruffled pillows from where she had last slept. Her blanket was halfway off the mattress— she had hurried to avoid her roommates and had not even bothered making her bed. Varya kneeled before the frame and pulled out a box she had been fervid to open.

She let the contents spill on her bed, a bunch of old pictures, a few bracelets that she had outgrown, her first fallen tooth, and a small bag that had seen better days. Her hand stopped over one of the pictures, and she thought back to the odd memory— it was her eleventh birthday, and one of her classmates from school had insisted on taking a picture of the girl as she studied in one of the book-rooms of Scholomance.

The light was dim, and she could barely make out her figure as it stood at a wooden desk. Varya remembered that bench. She had craved her initials with her first knife on one of its legs, a sort of ritual for new apprentices. Her hair was shorter than now, barely hanging over her shoulder, and she looked pestered by the boy that was taking the picture.

Another picture, another year. It was taken in the catacombs as the students stood over the corpse of a strigoi, almost like an anatomy lab. The Dark Priest had explained how the beasts functioned, how they siphoned magic from the blood of their victims. Varya turned the picture and smiled at the small note that one of her peers had made— _Do you think he is a strigoi too? Bloodsucking prick._ It was not signed, and the statement was so vague it could have belonged to anyone.

_There had been good memories._

It was the last picture that caught her attention, though, because it was taken before the Dark Priest had brought her to Scholomance. However, as she looked at it, she noticed something odd. Varya Petrov's eight-year-old self was still in the frame, standing in the backyard of what she had always assumed to be Magdalena's house, and yet where the woman's body was supposed to be, there was nothing.

A knock sounded at the door, and Varya scurried to place everything back in the box and stuff it under her bed. The wooden mass swung open, and Ivy Trouche walked in, followed by Della Beauchamp. They both squealed as they saw Varya, and ran to the girl at full speed, knocking her back into the ground.

"Ah! Get off, you pestering witches," she giggled, although she did not mean her words, and they knew it too as they shared a nimble look before embracing their Slytherin friend once again.

"It feels as if years have passed since I last saw you," sighed Ivy dramatically, getting up from the floor and dusting her dress off. It was of fine silk, a deep marine color, and the patterns of golden and silver threads that spun from the back to the front made it painfully elegant. Ivy looked the same, but her spirit had made fair use of the break, and she seemed to no longer carry the weight that it once had, and Varya wondered what this meant in regards to her plan to destroy Riddle.

Varya sighed, then, as she was about to open her mouth, the door opened again, and Elladora Selwyn walked in. She stopped in her tracks, eyes wide at the other presence in the room, almost as if she had forgotten what she was coming home to. She had been awful over the Christmas retreat, and Varya could not bring herself to care if she felt out of place in her own bedroom.

The girl with hair of blood only went to her bed in silence, briefly nodding in their direction. Once upon a time, Ivy had been the catalyzer to her fury, and Varya was the mediator in most scenarios. Now, she had turned her friend into her foe, and the semester would prove to be painstakingly awkward for the three roommates.

It was the raven-haired girl that moved first, marching out of the room as she paced down the stairs, and her two friends followed swiftly. They made their way to the Great Hall, already eager to feast upon the welcoming banquet.

"Fancy seeing you around," whispered Avery in her ear as she sat down at the table, a menacing grin on his face, "Did not take you for an early bird, but I suppose you would do anything to evade your lover-boy."

Varya let her eyes travel to the cup the boy was raising to his lips, and with a simple flick of the wrist, she sent its contents all over the boy's shirt, too tired to even bother arguing with the notorious tormenter. Her lips pulled in slight amusement at his little screech, and when the eyes of their fellow Slytherins turned towards him, he growled at the girl.

"Ah, you little wretched vixen! When I put my hands on you—"

"Sod off, Avery," came the voice of Icarus Lestrange, as he threw himself in the seat next to Varya, before throwing an arm around the girl and pulling her in for a kiss. Varya stilled for a second— what was he doing?

Then, she remembered that last they talked, it had ended in a match of snogging, and so the boy probably thought them to be some sort of couple, an odd one at that. Varya bit back wince as she felt his lips move against hers, and yet she let him kiss her passionately before detaching herself with a soft blush coating her cheeks. It was not because of him, though, but the way several students were staring at them.

"No way!" gasped Ivy before she bit into her bright green apple, "Varya, Lestrange, that was sickening to the stomach, yeah? A fair warning for the rest of us...I mean, when did this even happen?"

"Trouche, this whole table has endured two years of you exchanging saliva with Black, so you should not be the one to talk," scoffed Avery as he stole her apple and bit from the other side.

"Disgusting, you can keep it," growled the girl, but then waves of sadness crashed against her pupils, and her eyes flickered to Varya, "And you do not have to worry about that any more..."

Varya paled, "No way...the two of you are no longer together?"

"That appears to be the case," the Quidditch chaser's voice cracked, and she threw a glance to the end of the table where Alphard Black was sitting with his friends, throwing around some kind of ball and knocking into a group of first years, "Anyhow, he made the decision, I have to live with it. Said I was holding him back, can you believe it?"

" _Love is dead_!" imitated Avery, jeering at her high pitched tone, then he threw a glance at the newly-formed couple beside him, snickering at Varya's stiffness and Lestrange's cluelessness, "But fear not! A new couple has risen from your Phoenix ashes."

"You are so infuriating."

"And you are too ugly to keep frowning like that. Keep it loose, Trouche! Those witchy creams will not help you forever," The next thing the boy knew, a beef bone was being chucked at him, and he quickly ducked under the table. Ivy started kicking furiously in hopes of knocking the boy's head, hitting a few innocent Slytherins, and earning multiple glares, but Nicholas had resurfaced on the other end. He made an obscene gesture towards the girl, then ran out of the Great Hall.

Varya moved her body slightly, enough so that Icarus' arm fell off her shoulder, and leaned over to talk to her friend, "Ivy, you are a prefect and one of the best Quidditch players Hogwarts had had in years. If anything, he was the one holding you back."

The girl did not seem to fall for Varya's compliment, though, as she continued playing with the peas on her plate, moving them from one side to another. Lestrange politely asked her how her vacation had been, and Ivy gave him a nasty eye roll, almost as if asking— _is it not obvious_? But she proceeded to answer, telling the two of them that she had visited her parents in York, and that they had been delighted to have her back for a few weeks. She did not share the feeling. Her parents were stringent, and they enjoyed pestering her about her grades.

This semester was when the students of Hogwarts that had begun the second part of their fifth year would take their O.W.L.s, and of course, many parents had begun encouraging their children to focus on their studies. Varya supposed she did not have to worry about that.

When Ivy asked about their own vacation, Varya only talked about her time spent in London, explaining in great detail what had happened, and then switching to Icarus. The boy had made up his own story, or perhaps it was the first part of his vacation, Varya had not bothered asking.

She was still confused as to what the boy thought that they were— boyfriend and girlfriend? That did not quite sit right with the girl, and yet she could not bring herself to shatter his image, some part of it out of selfishness. As horrible as she was for leading him on, Icarus made her temporarily forget about Tom Riddle, and that was not something she could afford to lose right now.

"Have you heard, though?" inquired Ivy in a hushed tone, and when her classmates shared a look of uncertainty, she rolled her eyes and sighed, "About Arthur! He is still petrified, and they have not managed to find out what it was. Dippet wants to give up the investigation, but Dumbledore keeps telling him to continue."

Varya felt Icarus stiffen by her side— _curious_. "Is that so?" the boy asked nonchalantly, and yet his eyes glossed over with an indescribable blanket of... _something_.

"Yes," Ivy continued, obviously appalled at the notion as she gesticulated aggressively, almost hitting a Hufflepuff that passed their table, "Is it not ridiculous? Something attacked a child in this school, and our Headmaster wants to call off the search because...why? Because Newt Scamander keeps visiting Dumbledore, and he does not want to give off a bad impression!"

Varya chewed at a broken nail, ignoring the bubbling anxiety that rose when she heard the magizoologist's name, "Why would Scamander visit Dumbledore?"

"Have you not read any wizarding newspaper over the vacation, Varya? God! You people are so uninformed on the current event of this world. Grindelwald has been making more and more advances towards the West. Last I heard, he had already reached Switzerland."

"Why would Grindelwald be moving West?" demanded Varya, although something told her she knew the answer.

"Is it not obvious? He is coming for Hogwarts."

The three students turned to look at Maxwell Nott, who swung his legs over the table bench, taking a seat next to Varya, and placing his books on the table. Varya caught a brief glimpse of it, immediately being able to tell that it was _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ , except that version had been covered in corners scribbles and vague illustrations drawn in spluttered ink. Its pages were worn out, and the girl wondered why Nott was revising the book so eagerly. Perhaps, he was studying for his O.W.L., but last she remembered, the boy was not in her class and had preferred taking Arithmancy.

"Why would he be coming here?" asked Varya, and she felt Icarus tug at her sleeve urgently, but she ignored his warning not to probe further.

Maxwell shot her a cold glare, "For Dumbledore, obviously. As much as Riddle hates to admit it, the man in the most powerful sorcerer alive, and while he lives, there is no chance of Grindelwald taking over. Best just root out the problem."

Varya did not know what shocked her more— the fact that Maxwell had been talking to her more and more, or that his theory actually made sense. She had always known Albus Dumbledore was a powerful sorcerer, and yet had not considered this possibility. Of course, if anyone would be able to defeat the Dark Wizard, it would be Albus. So why was he not doing it?

"Either way, I do not know why Professor Dumbledore keeps fishing for whatever... _monster_ he desires to have petrified Arthur. We all know it was merely some intruder who thought it was funny to scare a muggle-born," scoffed Maxwell as he started scribbling something on his parchment. Ivy leaned over to look, but the boy just flicked her over the forehead, then growled.

However, Varya had caught onto something quite peculiar in Maxwell's sentence, "But Nott...whoever said anything about a monster?"

The boy raised his head at once, and the panic that flashed in his eyes was almost comical, "I was— I mean, it was only a theory, Petrov. Do not dwell on it."

 _But dwell on it, I shall_ , thought Varya as her eyes drifted to Icarus, who was now gulping on his water rather rapidly, obviously avoiding the conversation. They knew more than they were letting on, and the girl had a hunch that the students' petrification had something to do with the infamous Tom Riddle.

Some sort of anxiety overcame her, and she felt her mind bubble with uncertainty like a boiling pot of dread. Varya was starting to face problems that she did not know how to deal with, and at that moment, she felt overwhelmed. Her hands started shaking, and her pulse accelerated.

A loud noise sounded through the room, and Varya curved her head to assess the sound, expecting it to be a student who had flipped over a platter of food, and yet, as she perceived the room, she saw it had been something else. Typically, each Hall wall was lined with winged representations of the four animals that characterized each house— a snake, an eagle, a lion, and a badger. However, on the wall to her right, the winged snake statue had plummeted to the ground.

Students had begun gathering around it, and Professor Dippet walked away from the teacher's table to analyze the damage. Varya's eyes clinked in a frown, and as she looked around, she noticed other students were just as perplexed.

Not at any point in Hogwarts' history had a House statue crashed into pieces.

"That is no good," whispered Ivy as she turned to face the rest of the Slytherins, "That is a bad omen."

"You believe in that?" scoffed Icarus, and Varya met his eyes for the first time in forever. There was a painful awkwardness in their stare, and yet the boy gave her a reassuring smile, grabbing her hand and bringing it to his lips to softly kiss her knuckles. It was odd to see such a mischievous boy be so gentle. She did not like it.

"If it were not real, they would not be teaching Divination at Hogwarts, you arse," answered Ivy smugly. Icarus only scrunched his nose at the girl, and that was a reminder of the odd tension between Trouche and the Knights that had been going on ever since September.

Varya watched as Albus Dumbledore got up from his table and started making his way out of the Great Hall, and she quickly excused herself as she ran to catch up with the Transfiguration Professor. She followed him all the way to his office, and when he stopped in front of the door and turned to wait for her, she realized the man truly knew everything that moved around him.

"Varya," he nodded in acknowledgment as he opened the door to his office, and the Slavic student followed him inside, realizing how long it had been since she had last been in this chamber. Although she was supposed to keep him updated on Tom, she had not had any time to visit him after class. "I have been waiting for you to visit me."

"I am not here for the reason you think I am, Professor," the girl stated as she took a seat across from his desk, promptly refusing his lemon drops.

"Is that so?" he asked, eyes twinkling with some sort of understanding. He always knew more than he let on, and that was utterly infuriating. "Go on, then, what has brought you here?"

Varya did not know where to start— there was so much to say. The situation with Riddle had developed unexpectedly, and she had found information on his ancestry that she could surely tell Dumbledore, and yet when she opened her mouth to reveal the secret, no words came out. She shut it closed, and with a painful push, she knew that if she let Albus know of anything that was going on, she would be betraying Tom.

"I have been...keeping a close eye on Riddle," she began, although she had something else that was bugging her mind, "And while doing so, I was invited to attend a gala at the Rosier Manor, where two Grindelwald supporters rudely approached me."

There was some truth to her statement, and while the girl could not tell the whole story, she knew it would be enough to get her the information and help that she needed.

"And they said something remarkably odd, that Grindelwald has known of my existence. As a matter of fact, it was he who sent me to Scholomace."

Varya did not know what she had expected from the older wizard, but it was definitely not a blank stare.

"You knew," she breathed solemnly, and the rage started to bubble against her skin, "All this time, you knew what was going on, _and you lied to me_!"

Her scream resonated through the small room, so much so that she feared students in the hallway could have heard it, and yet Varya had no care for it. She had trusted Dumbledore; she had let him uproot her life and send her on a suicide mission. Was that a charade as well? Another way to play with her mind?

"Varya, you must understand—"

"No, I must do nothing for the likes of you! You _manipulator_...you...you absolute _traitor_!"

The candles in the room flickered, and the shadows in the corners danced as they started swirling and moving, almost like an extension to the Eastern witch. Her eyes watered at the betrayal, and she felt herself break in a way that she had not before. There was no wind in the room, and yet her voluminous curls agitated around her face. Magic sizzles underneath the thin epidermis and the office grew darker. Her soul twisted, or whatever was left of it, and some sort of darkness gripped out from beneath, and her rage grew...and it grew...and it grew.

_White, then onyx. White, then onyx. She was losing herself._

Hands clasped at her shoulders, and they shook her out of a disturbed state of unawareness, and Dumbledore's lagoon eyes swirled with worry as he sat her down in her seat again, "Varya, you must control yourself and listen to me. If I have ever hidden something from you, it was not only for your good, but for those around you."

Soft pearls of saltiness pooled in her ducts, and then overflowed like a raucous river in the early spring days as she grasped at his robes and regulated her breath.

"He toyed with my memories," she winced, and it pained her when she realized just how clueless she was to her own life. There was something so painfully twisting in not being able to remember her childhood, almost like forgetting half of who you are, and Varya feared that she was not the girl she thought she was. No, she was only a manufactured version of herself, "I want them back."

"You see, that could be extremely dangerous—"

"I do not care," she thundered, not worrying if she was defying the most powerful wizard that walked the Earth. If there was something that he feared in her enough to keep her in the dark, she held no remorse for her defiance. "If you do not help me, I will find someone that will."

Albus looked at the girl before him, the one he had heard about for years prior to her selection for his task, and wondered what to make of this moment. He had brought her here under the pretense of needing someone to change Tom Riddle, and while there was some truth to that, there were multiple reasons for Varya Petrov's appearance at Hogwarts, some greater than others. One thing was certain— the girl could not leave his cautious watch.

"Very well, then," he conceded, making his way back to his desk as he took out a piece of parchment and a quill. He began scribbling feverishly, his cursive writing imagery of his character, and when he had finished locking his words on a piece of paper, he handed it over to her, "Those are the times you will visit my office for the following months, and we will carefully work on extracting and untangling each memory. I must warn you, Varya, that it is not a pleasant process, and that there is a reason for which you have lost those moments in time. I fear that once you face the truth, it might be too much of a burden to handle."

Varya blinked at the schedule, quickly wiping the tears that had begun drying on her face, and nodded tiredly. She did not care; all she wanted to know was who she actually was, what her past had been, and what Grindelwald had done to her.

She got up from her seat, but right before she left, she remembered something, "Professor, you remember the night Tom Riddle found me in the forest?" she asked, feeling the shame creep at her slowly, and when he nodded, she continued reluctantly, "It was him that had been poisoning me for months, trying to break my mind, and he inevitably succeeded. He blindsided me, and he used Legilimency on me. He knows it was you who brought me here."

Albus sighed, frustrated at having to deal with another problem, "And what has he done since he has found out?"

"Initially, I told a lie— that you were indebted to my family, and so you brought me to Hogwarts after tracking me down, and he might have believed it for a second, but his acolytes eventually found out it was a fabrication, and they now know I lied. The oddity of it all is that I expected him to react violently, to reprimand me for deceiving him, and yet...he has said nothing," the girl explained.

Dumbledore nodded, scratching his chin while deep in thought, "There is only one reason that I can think of that would make Riddle not reach out to you about this."

"What is it, Professor?" she breathed, not appreciating the somber tonality of his voice.

"I fear that Tom Riddle has fashioned his own version of the truth behind your story, and that if he has managed to figure out everything, that boy might be well past the point of redemption."


	35. chapter thirty-three

The first Quidditch game of the semester was Slytherin against Ravenclaw. They had moved it from a Saturday to a Friday, and had scheduled it earlier due to the event of Arthur being petrified. It was a match that usually brought in a massive crowd. There was a good reason behind this too. Although Gryffindor was usually the house with the best team, Hufflepuff had been dominating that year, and Slytherin came in right after — save for the embarrassment of their game without Ivy Trouche— due to their aggressive gameplay and dirty tricks. Ravenclaw, on the other hand, might have been deemed the lesser house in the overall score, and yet their gameplay was so neatly calculated it was mesmerizing to watch.

It had never done much against the spontaneous Gryffindors, who also seemed to act on a whim and shatter their tactics, and the Hufflepuffs, as kind as they were, had the most adaptable gameplay. However, Slytherins were schemers, and because of that, their games against Ravenclaw always showcased in-depth knowledge of Quidditch.

Ivy had forced Varya into attending, condemning her for not seeing any of her past games, and the girl reluctantly agreed after the Chaser had pulled the "heartbroken over a breakup" card. It was truly not the Eastern witch's scenery; she much preferred when she was by herself in the library.

The Quidditch field was as it had always been, with large hoops placed on its ends, and multiple towers of bleachers scattered along its width. The announcer was in the same booth as the teacher's, and Varya could briefly make out Justin Abbott's golden hair in the dim sun, standing in his Hufflepuff uniform amongst a sea of professional robes.

"Welcome back, Hogwarts students! Today we have the first match of the semester, and the Slytherin and Ravenclaw teams are eager to start the year with an outstanding match, the duel of the brightest and most competitive minds," his voice reverberated through the system, followed by the roars of students as the House teams made their way to the stadium, tightly gripping on their brooms.

Varya's heart swelled with pride as Ivy soared into the sky, blonde hair pulled in a tight bun and sly smile on her face, and when the crowd chanted her name, the eastern witch found herself joining the ovations for Slytherin's Golden Girl. Trouche was admired by many for her bright intellect and outstanding sportsmanship, and many assumed she would make Captain next year when Steward Charlton, the current Seeker, and Captain, would graduate. The girl's future was already set, and all she had to do was maintain her grades and make sure she stayed sane.

A figure Varya had not expected to see on the field was Abraxas Malfoy, riding his new broom with cockiness and extravagance. From the bat he was carrying, the girl knew that the boy was a Beater, and she felt sorry for whoever would face the wrath of his Bludgers.

The Ravenclaw team was not as familiar, as Della had not told her much about the people that were part of it. The only person she recognized was the Head Boy, Felixius Parkin, a seventh-year male that had quite the admirers rooting for him in the stands. He was a charming lad, with a chiseled face that rivaled the British Royal family, and soft hair that blew in the January breeze with ease. Felix was one of the best Quidditch players that the Ravenclaw team had seen, and Varya remembered a brief conversation she had with Della on the boy.

"Of course, he is absolutely breathtaking! He is a descendant of Walter Parkin...Oh dear, you do not know who that is, do you?"

Varya shook her head, and part of her wanted to tell her friend that she did not truly care for the boy's family, "I am not familiar with Quidditch."

"His family founded the Wigtown Wanderers, only one of the best Quidditch teams in the League. Merlin, Petrov, educate yourself."

The Snitch soared in the sky. The match had started.

"Golden Girl Ivy Trouche immediately takes possession of the Quaffle, soaring to that goal-post, and would you look at that! Ravenclaw's Patricia Puffington sends a Bludger her way immediately— what a catfight! But oh! Malfoy immediately redirects it, speeding on his newly acquired Comet 220; what a wonderful Christmas gift, is it not? Not even released to the public yet! Should this be allowed? I do not know, but it is always a pleasure to see Malfoy fly!" Abbott's voice filled the arena, and it was so high pitched whenever he got excited that Professor Beery had to get him to settle down in his seat before he would tip over the commentator booth.

Varya watched the Slytherin team work together, and yet it was nothing compared to Ravenclaw— they worked like a well-oiled machine, and the girl heard someone behind her mutter that the team Captain was determined to win this year, as it was his last.

"Captain Parkin of Ravenclaw moves eagerly to find the Snitch. Oh, wait, do I see it? No! But I sure hope he does soon—"

"That is favoritism!" yelled a Slytherin from the crowd, but Justin did not care.

" Is he not marvelous? The crowd goes crazy as he avoids Malfoy's Bludger, a fight of the pretty boys! I would not want to see the fan war that will start if one of them breaks a bone. Ravenclaw's Keeper struggles as another Quaffle is sent by the Slytherin team, and yet manages to block it last minute!"

"Since when do you watch Quidditch games?"

Varya turned to face Rosier Renold, who was munching on a bag of candy, and when he offered some to her, she hesitantly took one— peppermint toads. She chewed on it eagerly, but when a hopping sensation came to her stomach, she gave Ren a surprised face. The boy only laughed as he took a seat next to her, throwing his legs over the chair in front of him, and almost hitting a first-year's head in the process.

The crow's cheers magnified as Ravenclaw scored another goal, making them lead with a 30 point difference. It was not much, but definitely the best they had played in that season, and it gave hope of a full comeback by the end of the year.

"I spoke to Icarus this morning; he seems to believe that the two of you are going steady now," muttered Rosier as he pulled a handkerchief to clean his chocolate fingers. Varya just licked hers.

"You are so meddlesome," derided the girl, trying to ignore the pang of fault that she felt in her abdomen. She had been supposed to end things with the boy, make it easier for him to move on as he found out the truth about her feelings, and yet she could not bring herself to do it. Varya wanted to convince herself that she could muffle her feelings from Riddle, and somehow, Icarus seemed to be her best shot at it.

Even so, Rosier gave her a judgmental look. He had grown up with Lestrange, and despite his belief that the boy was utterly obnoxious sometimes, they had become quite friendly. In some way, Renold cared for Varya as well, as they had all gotten closer to her over the past weeks, and yet his loyalty stood by the Knights, and he did not like it when one of them was being used for someone else's personal benefit.

Do not misunderstand; his heart went out for the girl, as it was indeed a sacrilege to fall for a sociopath like Tom Riddle, but that was something Varya had to deal with on her own. No matter how hard she would try, Lestrange would not be the solution to that entanglement. He would only get hurt.

"You know how I feel about what you are doing," remarked Rosier, glancing at the match just in time to see Ivy Trouche score another point, and he whistled as the girl flew by, only earning a poisonous glower in return.

"I do," Varya's voice carried some repentance, at least, which was an indication that she knew that what she was doing was wrong, "But he is happy, at least."

"Foolishly happy, because you are deceiving him into believing that you care for him."

"I do!" another judgmental stare, "I truly do care for Icarus; he is one of the people I value most here. Do I love him? No, that belongs to someone else as much as I wish it did not, and yet part of me can only hope that one day that might change. And besides, what is wrong with trying?"

"Of course, it is wrong; you are in love with his friend!"

Varya groaned, and tipped over as she grabbed at her head in frustration. She knew that her actions were not scrupulous, she knew that her heart would never yearn for Lestrange the moment they kissed for the first time, but she was in denial. To her, it was the lesser of two evils— be in a loveless relationship or be hopelessly devoted to someone who would unscrew your head at the first annoyance. Nevertheless, she was only thinking of herself in this situation.

It was hard to do the opposite. Humans tended to always watch out for themselves, selfish beings, and it was easier to stand on the outside and judge than be the one making the change.

"Oh, no! Slytherin's Seeker, Steward Charlton, has spotted the Snitch! This is no good for the Ravenclaw team, who has been making an impeccable comeback, and yet Felixius Parkin tails right behind Charlton, gliding through the field with determination. A BLUDGER! It misses and hits Ravenclaw's Patricia Puffington; what a shame! She falls off the broom and plummets, ouch! That will surely result in a few broken bones, but I hear Matron Aduddel has restocked the candy bowl, so all is well! Well, except for the pain, I suppose..."

The whole stadium raised to its feet, watching the two seekers shove each other as they chased the Snitch with confidence, avoiding the countless Bludgers sent their way, and Varya found herself mimicking their actions.

"Charlton reaches out, determined to grab that little golden devil, and— oh! Just as he is about to get it, a Bludger knocks him off, it seems that this is Parkin's moment to shine, and the crowd of ladies chants' grow stronger. _Parkin, Parkin, eagle's might! Parkin, Parkin, he is so bright! Fly Felixius, fly on your broom! Show the Slytherins their doom!_ " Abbott participated in the distasteful chant, and Varya could not help but sneer at the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs that join in, taunting her own house, "AND THERE WE HAVE IT! PARKING HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH! Ravenclaw has won the game with a score of 230 points! Better luck next time, serpents!"

The Slytherin crowd booed and sneered as the Head-Boy flew by, not caring about having any points deducted for unsportsmanlike behavior. The bleak atmosphere of a colossal loss settled in immediately, and the serpents started vanishing from the stadium. Varya and Rosier looked at each other, then began making their way down the tower's stairs before running to the field, where the Slytherin team was angrily throwing their equipment at the ground.

"Dagnabit, Malfoy, why did you not block that bloody Bludger?" squealed Ivy as she marched up to the boy, already prepared to tackle him to the ground.

Malfoy jeered, "I was on the other side of the field, you absolute horn spoon!".

The two gawked at each other furiously, before they snarled and turned to their respective friends. Trouche immediately ran to Varya, whereas Abraxas stomped his way to Rosier.

"Can you believe this, Varya? Ravenclaw beat us! Unbelievable, truly— they are lucky they have bloody Parkin on their team, and I find it so unfair! His whole family plays Quidditch, he grew up eating it for breakfast, and you know what? I think that is bogus!" the girl jabbered on as she paced around, her hands flapping around at an impressive speed, but Varya could only stare, unsure what to say, "Now, if _I_ were Captain, I would have done this completely differently! First of all, what was worm-for-brains Malfoy even doing on the other side of the field when he saw that the seekers were chasing the Snitch!"

"Piss off, you foul woman!" roared Malfoy from the entrance to the changing rooms, as Rosier tried to stop him from advancing toward the Chaser.

Suddenly, Ivy took off her shoe and chucked it at the boy's head as he turned around to leave, hitting him right in the nape of the neck. Varya could tell the girl took Quidditch very seriously, and yet the sight of her getting violent over it was terribly amusing, "I will curse your whole bloodline, you arse!"

That is all it took for Abraxas to lose his temper, and he started chasing the blonde down the field, murder on his mind. Varya could only blink and stare as she watched them run around the enormous land, both infuriated with the other.

"Your friends are quite sore losers, ey?" came a Scottish accent from behind her, and Varya turned to meet the honey eyes of Felixius Parkin, who had changed out of his match uniform and was now sporting his Ravenclaw attire, Head-Boy badge on his robe. He extended out a gallant hand to her, and Varya shook it, unsure of why he had approached her, "Felixius Parkin, but I prefer being called Felix; has a nicer ring to it, does it not?"

"I suppose," her voice was withdrawn, and she glanced at Rosier, who was now cheering Malfoy on, "Varya Petrov."

"So I have heard. Now, Petrov, I would like to extend an invitation to you and your Slytherin friends. We are throwing a celebration party, Ravenclaw rarely has such a victory, and we believe in inviting our adversaries," he said, and Varya could not help but compare him to Tom Riddle.

Felix was much more informal, and although he was older by two years, at least, he had a more boyish charm to him than Tom did. He was attractive, that was certain, perhaps even more so than Riddle, and yet his eyes missed that spark that the Slytherin prefect had.

"I do not imagine they would find the invite to be as courteous as you might think," the girl responded, crossing her arms as she regarded the Ravenclaw senior.

He laughed, eyes turning into two semi-lunas, and his teeth flashed, "Of course, it is only normal. That is unfortunate. However, there is something else I would like to discuss with you. As you might know, I have been assisting Professor Kettleburn for most of his Care for Magical Creature classes. Only fair I do so, after all, he is rather...prone to accidents. However, with my N.E.W.T.s coming right around the corner, I have become quite busy, and so he has asked me to find someone to fill in the position."

"And you thought of me?" the girl asked, eyebrow furrowing in mistrust. It was true that she was best in her year, but how come he had not gone for Riddle, who oozed charm out of every pore? Or, perhaps, a sixth year?

"Yes, precisely. You have scored better on your exam last semester than any other student, and Kettleburn would surely love to work with you. He is quite the influential man in his department, and can most certainly get you a good position after graduation, should you be interested," Felix explained eagerly, and they started walking together out of the field and to the castle, "Now, the transition of positions should go by smoothly, I expect, you must only attend my weekly meetings with him in a fortnight. We have a task for you already!"

Varya thought about it for a few moments, not wanting to make a rash decision and regret it. Her schedule had started getting extensively packed, as she had picked up Alchemy as an extra elective despite Dippet's warning of burning herself out, and her meetings with Dumbledore were supposed to start this week. And yet, she found herself nodding to Felix's proposal, knowing very well that if her mind were occupied all the time, it would not wander to a certain Slytherin prefect.

"Brilliant!" echoed the Head-Boy, clasping his hands in excitement, "I will let our Professor know immediately."

"What is the task you have for me, if you do not mind me asking?"

"Ah, well, Professor Beery has been trying to get Dippet's approval for the staging of a theatre play, The Fountain of Fair Fortune, and he needs a couple of worms for it. Do not ask me why, I have not read The Tales of Beedle the Bard; alas, you will be in charge of them during the opening night."

They reached the Grand Hall, and Felix bid the girl goodbye with a short bow, as it was time for seventh years to have their Defense Against the Dark Arts class, and Varya continued walking the corridor until she reached the Alchemy course. She was early, with barely anyone having bothered to come to class before the bell chimed, and so she sat at the front desk and pulled out her textbook.

She started underlining another chapter, cursing herself for not studying over the break as Riddle had, mostly since this was to be one of her more challenging classes. There were only a few fifth years that had been brave enough to tackle the subject, most being turned away by the notion, and yet Varya had decided that it would look good on her transcripts when she graduated. Not that she knew what she wanted to do, but it was never a bad thing to keep your options open by dabbling with a bit of everything.

She chewed on her quill anxiously as her eyes skimmed over the paragraph she was reading once again, small scribbles gracing the upper half of the page— her mind could not focus. Varya kept thinking back to her conversation with Dumbledore, at the way her magic had reacted to the exposal of betrayal, and her skin covered in goosebumps.

There had been something so terribly wrong, so odious in nature, and she had not felt like the witch she once was. This had been happening for a while now, and the first instance she had felt it was when she had killed that damned rabbit in the Wool's orphanage.

She was starting to lose her trust in Dumbledore, and that was an incredibly dangerous thing, as he was her anchor to morality at this point, the only good influence in her life besides Della.

The door of the class opened, and multiple students started walking in, chatting about the Quidditch game, and expressing their opinions on who was to win the House Cup this year. Most bets were on Hufflepuff, and some expressed their astonishment on Slytherin falling in the ranks, as Ravenclaw now had a chance of winning. They had only lost once against the Gryffindors, but the score was very close.

"Settle down," came the voice of Dumbledore as he walked in the classroom, and Varya saw Tom Riddle make his way to the front desk, sitting two seats away from her. Their eyes met briefly, and he glared at her harshly before turning to his book.

Varya sighed, knowing very well that the boy was avoiding her, and that itself was not a good sign, because an undistracted Tom was a scheming Tom. Her mind went back to Nott's words from a couple of weeks back, the self-incrimination regarding the case of Arthur Thompson, and she wondered how Tom Riddle fit into all of it.

Then, there was the whole ordeal that had transpired between the two on New Year's Eve, and then tension that bubbled whenever they were together. Varya feared that her feelings would become obvious to the boy, and that he would try to take advantage of her state of mind. She had to be extremely careful with her body language, as it was what usually gave her away.

"As you may know, Alchemy is a very delicate subject, something that not many wizards master, and yet it holds great potential and wonder. Now, can someone point what our main objectives will be during this semester?" Dumbledore asked as he sat on his desk, playing with a quill in his hand. He raised his gaze to the pupils sitting behind the desks, and almost everyone avoided his stare. Everyone except, of course, Tom Riddle. "Yes, Tom?"

Varya winced at the fact that the Professor had used Tom's birth name, knowing how much the boy detested it. The girl barely used it herself, usually only addressing him as Riddle, as he had a tendency to grow rigid whenever he was reminded of his muggle father.

It might not have been evident to the untrained eye, but Varya had been around Riddle so much that she could immediately tell when the boy was irritated. His jaw set, and he cemented the most bogus smile she had ever seen, eyebrows raising as he blinked aggressively. He did not appreciate being called Tom, even more so when it came from Dumbledore.

"I believe that we will be studying the transmutation of substances, as well as the composition, structure, and magic proprieties of the elements, _sir_ ," he returned politely. However, there was a slight jab in his last word. Of course, it was barely detectable, but Dumbledore hoisted an eyebrow up at his attitude.

"That is correct," he continued, promptly ignoring the boy's silent challenge, and then he trained his eyes on Varya. "Miss Petrov, can you give us an example of transmutation?"

Varya's eyes flew to her textbook momentarily, and Riddle's scoff was not missed, then she pursed her lips and answered, "Turning metals to gold would be an appropriate example."

"Also correct," asserted the teacher, "Now, what I want you to understand about Alchemy is its difference from muggle chemistry. You see, they have something quite similar to transmutation, except it is considered to be nuclear, the mutation of an element from another based on the number of protons and such. This is a new technique, and they have barely managed to achieve it in 1925, and yet it is already being tested in laboratories. What exactly are they trying to recreate?"

It was a seventh-year Hufflepuff that raised his arm this time, "The Philosopher's stone."

"Precisely, they are trying, in a way, to copy magic. Nevertheless, why is this _not_ magic?"

Varya looked around, not having a precise answer, and noticed that the rest of the students were doing the same thing, some even giving her and Tom curious glances. How odd it was that not even the star students could answer this enigma. To Petrov's surprise, however, Tom raised his hand, and yet when Dumbledore called on him, it was not an answer that left his mouth, but a question.

"How is this relevant, Professor? Why should we care about muggles and their odd technologies, they will never be able to turn lead to gold, and I fail to understand how this relates to our curriculum," the prefect argued, obviously irritated by the nonsensical babbling.

"Do you fail to understand how it is relevant, or do you simply not know the answer, Tom?"

Tom shut his mouth tight, and Varya was frightened by how his polite face melted into a sociopathic look of wrath, and yet a moment later, it was gone, replaced by the bothersome calmness.

It had become quite clear that somewhere along the way, Albus had given up on Tom Riddle, and had merely passed on his enigma to someone else. Perhaps, that is why the boy loathed him so much— he resembled his father too much. A man of great stature, admired by many, who should have been an important figure in his life, and yet he had fled at the slightest indication of darkness. Tom had never had the guidance of a paternal figure in his life, and Dumbledore could have stepped in and tried to guide him, had he truly wanted to save the boy. Regardless, he had assigned this task to Varya.

Riddle did not say anything else, and so Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued, "One could argue that what the muggles are doing is that they are starting to manipulate magic, and believe me, I would not put it past them to turn lead into gold in the next forty years, or even send a man to the moon. They might be roughly five-hundred years behind us in such matters, but there is no denying that their science is just as obscure as the idea of witchcraft."

"And yet they still burned us for it!" said a revolted Slytherin.

"That is not here nor there; unfortunately, the human mind fears what it does not understand," Dumbledore waved his hand to dismiss the comment, the pulled at a board and started writing down the first elements in the periodic table, "Now, I want you to get into pairs and start working on the assignment in your textbook. You will be covering the circle or transmutation, and I want at least a paragraph written before the period ends. The rest of it, I expect by next week. Arrange in alphabetical order of your family names."

Of course, it was natural that "R" came after "P," and so Varya found herself walking to Riddle shyly, the only other fifth-year student in the room. She sat at his desk and took in a deep breath when the boy refused to look up from his work, much rather doing it on his own.

His posture was stiffened, a dead giveaway that Tom was aware of her presence and was ignoring her on purpose. Varya was bewildered at his impassiveness, as he naturally at least enjoyed riling her up with witty remarks and outdated sarcasm.

"Riddle," she whispered, and when he ignored her again, she pulled at his parchment, making his quill drag an ugly line through what he was writing. He had already started his assignment, the girl realized, and that made her frown.

"I will end you," he growled as he snatched his essay back, frowning at the damage before casting a quick spell to erase the mistake.

"This is supposed to be a group project, and I would rather not get points deducted because something crawled up your arse this morning."

Another nasty glare, and a scoff, "You have obviously not studied over the break, and I do not want you to drag down my grade because you came unprepared."

"Yes, because someone had me doing all his dirty work during the break," she hissed at him, and Tom glanced up for the first time, meeting her eyes in a broken promise. Varya felt her pulse drum when she faced the depth of his ocean tide stare, and his expression carried some sort of gaze that was hard to describe, almost like a child that had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and yet he refused to admit it. Too bad the boy had no conscience. 

"And you failed miserably," he sneered at her, "I had to get the information myself."

"Had you actually provided the security that you boasted about, I would have not been put in a situation where I had to fend for myself and get hurt," she argued, although it was not the real reason she had fled the party, "Why would I continue a task when you could not hold your own end of the bargain?"

"You claim to be some kind of almighty witch, and yet you need us to protect you?" Tom ridiculed her, trying his best to keep a pleasant face despite the wrath in his tone. People were always watching him, and that meant he had to keep his charade solid. "I assumed you were capable enough not to need my supervision. Perhaps, I overestimated you. After all, you are merely a child."

"So are you! We are the same age, Riddle."

Tom let out a throaty growl, then leaned over so he could make himself heard, "I am not a child, Petrov. I have never been, because I did not have the luxury of a childhood. My existence has been followed by a dark cloud of misfortune since the minute my filthy mother perished, and yet I made a cloak out of the mist and a crown out of the pain. I wear it proudly— do you?"

"You know nothing about how I grew up," the girl said, onyx eyes peering at the prefect with fire ablaze. Merlin, she barely knew much about her childhood herself, so how dare this boy make such assumptions of her? "Your mother died giving birth to you, she sacrificed herself, mine left me because her fanaticism was more precious to her than her own daughter."

"Your mother was a woman that fought for what she believed in, mine was a coward that fell prey to her own weakness."

"Whatever, Riddle," Varya scoffed, then leaned back in her chair with crossed arms, not wanting to deal with the boy's cruel behavior today. He was so frustrating, and it drove her mad. How dare he speak on her childhood as if he had taken his time to ever ask her about it?

As soon as class finished, Tom Riddle packed his things and stormed out, not even bothering to greet her goodbye, and Varya rolled her eyes at his actions. He was childish, incredibly so, and had no reason to be acting this way. So what if something had happened between them in the forest? He did not have to act as if it burned his mind to think about her. God, he was frustrating!

Varya made her way to Dumbledore, who was packing his papers and gave him a courteous nod.

"We start tomorrow," he said abruptly, then walked out of the classroom in a hurry, almost as if he was late for an important meeting.


	36. chapter thirty-four

THE ROOM WAS obscure, with no windows or openings to the outside world, and the only source of light was the flickering light bulb in the middle of the ceiling. It was covered in grime and spider webs, and it swung from one side to another with a faint creak. The air was dusty, and each breath burned the lungs, so much so that some of the bodies in the room coughed continuously. It was almost like being in a pneumonia ward.

_Drip, drop. Drip, drop. Drip, drop._

Something rattled at the old pipe that ran across the wall of Scholomance's basement, and a hand darted out to reach to the sound source, almost like a twig about to break in the wind. The girl felt herself lose all strength in her system, and she could not feel her lower body. Despite her best attempts, her vision kept blurring, and when she moved her head, it was as if water waved inside her skull. It stung profoundly, and if she had had enough vigor to part her lips, she would have winced.

There was only deadened vibration around her, and the odd sensation of being watched, but she was somewhere between alertness and a fainting feeling, and could not make sense of her surroundings. They looked familiar, and something knocked at her brain, almost as if she was supposed to remember the gloomy room.

_Drip, drop. Drip, drop. Drip, drop._

"She is waking up, sir," came a cry from the deepness of the obscurations, and the girl saw something move across her visual field, before a sensation prickled at her skin, a dull ache in her arm. "That should keep her down."

"You said that about the last dose as well," grumbled a man as he strode over to the table, grabbing the syringe and inserting it deeper in the girl's arm, pumping its contents in viciously, "If you cannot do your job, Matron Lawrence, then have a man with the guts to do it take this over."

"My apologies, sir, I promise to watch her over carefully."

"How are the rest faring?" steps reverberated as the man walked away from the girl, and the Matron followed closely. Their voices bounced off of the walls, echoing through the basement.

"The one near the exit has unfortunately passed away; her body could not take the, uh— the stress, and perished during the night, around midnight, we believe," stated Lawrence in a hushed tone. The sound of wheels screeching against the floor resonated through the room, and then a tray of utensils was moved across a table. Something ripped at the skin, and a damp smell filled the room.

"What about the boy?"

"The boy? We have tried inducing forced shifting, and we believe that with the moon approaching, it will only become easier—"

"But you know that is not what I am asking about." The man's voice was guttural, so much so that the girl found herself cringing at it. Her head was still pounding, and she had to fight with all her might against the substance that had been injected.

"Oh, well, I cannot say, sir, the most promising one is still the Petrov witch. We have been studying her for a while now, but it is hard to say whether it would work."

The footsteps came back to where the girl stood stock-still, and she felt a presence hovering over her, "She has grown up under your watch, has she not?".

"Yes, right in the heart of Scholomance, and she has been under our supervision for years now, undergoing all of our...trials. Nevertheless, it is hard to tell the outcome of it all. Combining such forces goes against nature, but if we succeed, we will find ourselves owning an incredible weapon."

A door banged, and Varya felt her head pound as obscurity started to skim from the edges of her vision, and she knew that whatever the substance was, it was meant to knock her out. However, something in her blood fought against the intrusiveness, and she used her last bit of energy to stay awake, alert.

Her head dropped to the side, and she saw Matron Lawrence approach another bed across from her, where a pale hand stuck out from the sheets. The doctor pulled them away, revealing the cold body of Ecaterina Banescu, and Varya felt queasiness build in her skin. That was one of her fellow seniors, a sixth-year that had died the previous month due to a strigoi attack, and yet her body had been brought to the catacombs. Even in her mind-altered state, the decay was evident, and Varya could feel the odor of putrefaction.

A scream sounded in the room, and Varya's eyes dashed to the corner, where a boy was fighting against the Matron, clawing at her face as she was trying to restrict him down with chains. There was no virtue in his growl, and he trashed around spitefully. Eventually, when he was restrained, Lawrence pulled out a chart and scribbled down a few notes. Then, she took a syringe from her pocket and stuck it in the boy's neck, immediately knocking him out. That was Ivan Oleh. Varya was close to him.

_Drip, drop. Drip, drop. Drip, drop._

The damned sound of liquid dripping would not leave the poor girl's mind, almost driving her insane, and she struggled to find its source yet again, but to no avail. Her eyes flew to the pipes repeatedly, but she could not see any hole in them. Her head moved slightly, and then she saw the red duct that connected from her hand to a bag just below her bed.

_Why were they taking her blood?_

***

Varya gasped as she opened her eyes, and fell backward to the floor as she scurried away from the pensive, breathing harshly. It was as if a river of coldness had awakened her from a deep slumber, and a memory that had not been there previously was now at the front of her brain. It was an odd feeling, almost as if she had watched a movie; she was aware that the person in it had been her, and yet it did not feel like it.

Albus gave her a hand, and then hoisted her up off of the floor, helping the girl reach one of the chairs in his office. Varya sat down and thanked her Professor as he gave her a cup of hot chocolate. She sipped on it anxiously, still shaken by what her mind had conjured.

"What did you see?" He asked promptly, not bothering to skim around the question, and Varya let out a shaky breath. What _had_ she seen? They had had only three sessions so far, and yet none of them had proved fruitful, always showcasing some sort of dim chamber. Moreover, Varya always felt cold, and yet today had been the first time she had heard someone talk.

"A dark room, a basement of sorts, and it was at my old school, the same pipes ran throughout the whole building, marked with the same factory symbol so that I could tell," she began, her voice dull, "There were people there, doctors, and they were talking about some trials. One of the girls four years ahead of me was dead, but they talked as if she had died there. That did not make sense to me; we were told that she died during an attack..."

Ecaterina Banescu had died during a strigoi attack; they had had a funeral for her on a rainy Tuesday in the month of November; Varya had cried for the girl despite not knowing her well. Her tomb was by the fourth tree in the graveyard, and her friends had left flowers every day for the upcoming months. On Easter, there had been a plate for her placed at the sixth-year table. Varya remembered all of it, and the pain that she had felt.

"Then, there was a boy, and they talked about him shifting during the moon phase."

"A werewolf," hummed Dumbledore, scratching his chin in wonder. He seemed to be in deep thought.

"I believe so, but they were trying to learn how to induce the shift. And then they said something about me— that I was the most promising, but they did not say for what. The Matron injected me with something, and I think it was meant to knock me out. Peculiar, but they were taking my blood," the girl gazed at the Phoenix cage that was empty near the desk, and she wondered where the bird must have gone.

Dumbledore breathed deeply and leaned back in his chair as he looked up at the ceiling, and the girl could only dart her eyes across his office in awkwardness, letting the man have a moment for himself to think.

Then, she remembered something, and her skin chilled over. When Dumbledore had come to transfer her from Scholomance, he had said something to the Dark Priest and alluded to some experiment that the Headmaster had been carrying out.

That implicated Albus, and Varya understood with disgust that the wizard was aware of whatever had happened to her, and yet he was withholding information.

"You already know all of this," the girl muttered, and Albus' eye darted to her immediately, although he remained silent. "Why are you not telling me? Why do I have to go through it so painfully slow when you have all the answers?"

"Because the sudden truth might be too much for you," was the answer she received, and Varya's frowned deepened. What could be so horrid that it would traumatize her so profoundly? "You finding out is already hazardous, but you seem very set on uncovering the truth, and I would much rather you do it under my supervision. So, what do you think your memory meant?"

Varya scratched her hairline and bit the inside of her cheek, unsure, "They were definitely carrying out some sort of experiment; they were trying to weaponize us but...I cannot see how they could ever use my powers. This is not making any sense, Professor."

Dumbledore looked at the girl, and understood her frustration and confusion. Part of him wanted to end her search for answers, to protect her mind from the horrid truth that had been shadowed from her, and yet another part, the selfish one, the dominant one, let the girl pursue her desires because he knew that it would help him understand what had happened.

"It will once we dive in deeper, but I see it best we end our meeting for today; I have other matters to attend—"

"Concerning Grindelwald?" asked Varya with focused eyes, as she remembered what Ivy had said at the table a few days back. Dumbledore only gave her a strange look, and did not answer as he gestured to the door. The girl huffed in annoyance but proceeded to leave the room as requested. She would find out what was going on somehow, even if Albus did not want her involved.

Varya walked along the corridor, unsure of where she should head. It was a Sunday, and most students were out at Hogsmeade, but the girl had not managed to get her permission slip signed, so as she wandered around the castle, she realized it was mostly empty.

Although the curfew was to hit soon, there was more than enough time to wander around, so Varya ran up the moving stairs, letting them take her wherever they wanted to. They switched seven times, clockwise, then the other way around, and Varya walked down the hallway of the fourth floor.

She soon reached a dead end, and made to leave, but then she saw an unusual mirror placed on one of the walls, almost as if it stuck out of it. Varya walked up to it, and noticed the slightly ajar position; then, as she pushed it with a hand, it revealed a spacious passage.

"Curious," she muttered, then started walking along until she reached the other end, where yet another door stood slightly open. Someone had just used the passage before her, and as Varya stepped outside, a small chuckle left her lips.

She stood in the Hogsmeade Train Station, and realized that the door was a secret escape to the small wizarding village. Varya breathed in the January air, and she felt her lungs burn at the coldness, but it was a pleasant feeling.

The girl started walking down the Main Road, wondering if she could spot any familiar faces amongst the crowd of students, and sure enough, she saw Icarus Lestrange and Maxwell Nott exiting Zonko's Joke Shop, the trickster sucking on a sugar quill, then offering it to his friend and receiving a disgusted look in return.

Varya ran to him with a smile on her face, and when Icarus saw her, he opened his arms to greet her with a hug. The girl embraced him shyly, face nuzzled in his chest, and he placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

"Look at you, did you sneak out, my darling? Such a devious witch!" His eyes sparkled with the pristine enjoyment of a man who admired idyllic recklessness, and his hands interlocked with hers in a promise of adventure and heedlessness. If he felt her fingers twitch, or the slight reflex of her pulling away, he did not say anything. "We were just heading to The Three Broomstix; you came just in time. We are trying to see who can finish four halves of beer— Avery or Rosier. Maxwell said Avery, obviously."

Nott nodded from his side, approving his words, and then stated in a matter-of-fact voice, "Nicholas was born to be an alcoholic; I have never seen someone finish a bottle of wine faster than him. It was a Madeira one too, perhaps the most expensive sort because it came from Cossart, one of the oldest companies in the business. It was the flavor of Sercial, which is a type of white grape grown in Portugal, especially—"

"Anyway," Lestrange interrupted his friend, rolling his eyes at the way he always spluttered knowledge, then turned to walk backward as to face Varya, not caring that he bumped into countless wizards, "I, of course, said Rosier, because we all know his father has a wine cellar that he raids every holiday."

Varya gave Nott a smile when she heard him scoff, and the intellectual boy dragged his scarf up to his red nose, covering it from the harsh coldness of the day. He dragged the strap of his bag further up, and the girl heard the clutter of books inside it.

They reached the Inn shortly after, and as soon as they entered, Varya was overwhelmed by the loud chatter of students. Each table was filled, to the point where some had to sit up and form a crowd, and laughter ricocheted off the walls, clashing against the sound of finished half-pints being slammed against the table.

Even so, in one corner of the Inn, there was a table with seven chairs, and almost as if some magical barrier had fenced it, no student dared invade the space of the Knights of Walpurgis. They watched over the sea of overly excited students with indifferent faces.

Elladora Selwyn stood with her feet placed on the table, head swung back on the chair's seat, and hair pulled in a ponytail of fire. Nicholas Avery and Renold Rosier were bantering on one side of the table, glasses of beer in front of them, and Abraxas Malfoy was holding his head in despair at their bothersome behavior.

What was most surprising was Tom Riddle standing at the head of the table, a book opened in front of him, and Varya remembered when her roommate told her that he rarely came to visit the village with them, too preoccupied with other affairs. Nevertheless, here he was, wearing a sweater that was too large on him, sleeves curled up his arms to reveal the slightest bit of skin, and it reached past his hips, color of the midsummer forest. His curls were more ruffled than usual, a few of them falling on his forehead, right above furrowed eyebrows. His eyes rose when he heard the group approaching and immediately fell to the interlocked hands of a particular couple. He shut his book.

"Ah, there you were," remarked Rosier as he stood up from his table and made way to embrace Varya, much like he always did nowadays, then pulled a chair from a random first-year Ravenclaw, setting it at the table.

Right next to Tom.

Varya sat down, trying to ignore the way he was staring at her, and focused her eyes on Icarus, who was chatting lively with Rosier and patting his back in encouragement. They almost seemed like a match between a coach and his star athlete, and Varya wondered how many times they allowed themselves to feel this kind of joviality. Then, she felt a tug at her sleeve, and she turned to face Riddle.

"Speaking to me now, Riddle?" she scoffed, and the boy narrowed his eyes, leaning forward until their elbows were almost touching.

"I have a task for you."

"Piss off!"

He let out a low growl.

"It was not a question; I need you to do something for me. After you failed to interrogate the last two families, I had to have Lopheus talk to them. They are not loyal, it seems, but they had some beneficial information on an object of great importance to me," he spoke in a hushed tone, face so close to hers that his breath fanned her cheek, and she saw Icarus give them a glance from the other end of the table.

Varya's curiosity got the best of her, "What do you need?"

"There is this object of great significance that I have been looking for, a diadem, and I have managed to find its location through rather reliable sources," he said smugly, almost as if he expected praise from the girl, "But it happens to be in Eastern Europe, and I require your assistance on my trip. I will have to go through a forest, and with the most recent sightings of creatures, I would rather have you with me."

"You want me to come with you?" Varya asked, unsure of how to react. It was her damned, stupid heart that would not stop bouncing in her chest, despite her mind telling her to back out and run for the hills.

"Yes," he said, meeting her eyes in another clash of pride, and when he did not see her budge, he became restless, "Please."

Varya could not hide the smirk on her face, and he narrowed his eyes at her behavior. Nevertheless, the girl let herself enjoy a slight moment of victory, knowing very well that she had managed to get some courtesy out of Tom Riddle.

The smell of roast beef and pies filled the chamber, and the bubbling laughter of students was muffled as the two Slytherins continued to stare at each other. It was almost as if the world surrounding them had faded into muteness, a testimony of their bond and devotion. Varya's cavity drummed as she looked at the man she loved, and deep warmth spread through her being, making her curl her toes in her shoes and part her lips in wonder.

He was so mesmerizing to her, so absolutely breathtaking that he did not seem real. Tom Riddle was an angelic face with demonic tendencies, almost as if he had been the seed of Lucifer himself, a fallen angel in need of redemption. His eyes were the Pacific Ocean on a stormy day, and she was a boat that had fallen prey to its tsunamic waves, engulfed by the water, and then she suffocated as it spread through her lungs.

Discomfort inked his features, and he broke the eye lock just as Renold Rosier downed his last glass of alcohol, letting out a prideful howl as he shook his head from the bitter taste, mouth puckering.

"You cheated!" screamed Avery, finishing only a few seconds behind. "You started ahead of me, you little buffoon."

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

They both turned to look at Elladora, who had been playing the role of referee between the two of them, but she only shrugged indifferently, and the two men groaned before trying to order another round for a rematch.

Varya gazed back at Riddle, "What do I gain out of this?".

His eyes narrowed, and he huffed in annoyance. A part of him had forgotten that she was not part of the Knights and that her assistance was always a trade between the two of them, "What do you desire?".

"A favor," the girl answered, "Not something specific right now, but you will remain indebted to me until I can think of something."

"I refuse to do such a thing."

"Then, I guess it is time for you to find a different Eastern witch."

Tom Riddle was growing impatient with her, and his jaw set in fury as he looked at her nonchalance. Few would dare manipulate him in such ways, and yet this woman seemed to do it so often it had become a habit.

"Fine, a favor," he said eventually. The girl gave him a smile that he could not look at, and he trained his eyes on his followers, who were now engaging in another competition. He judged their alcoholism, as Tom barely found himself enjoying the bitter taste of beer, and what was even worse was the sensation of mind haziness that came after. Tom enjoyed having control over his thoughts, and he found that the poisonous drink inhibited that.

Icarus Lestrange came by Varya's side, placing his palms over her shoulders in affection, and squeezing gently to massage the girl's neck. That seemed to momentarily tense her up, before she fell back in his hold, looking at him with gratitude. Tom felt a strange sensation overtake him, and his stomach flipped with something similar to anxiety as he watched the two. It was more potent now, and he thought it was because of the distraction Petrov had become. Lestrange was no longer whom he used to be, his ruthlessness had been mellowed by the witch, and Tom attributed the suffocating sensation in his chest to displeasure.

Abraxas Malfoy pulled Rosier out of his seat, who was now a limp drunken mess, spluttering nonsensical words with a sharp tongue. He hissed at a passing Gryffindor, and Malfoy had to physically restrain him from advancing toward the poor student. Avery was in a similar manner, banging his head against the table. He knew he had had too much, and he could feel nausea slowly creeping in, so he stood up and grabbed at Lestrange.

"Take me back, lover boy, will ya'?" In his drunken state, Avery no longer carried the posh tone that he usually used, his words sounding more like a commoner.

Icarus threw a glance at Nott, "Why can Maxwell not do it?"

Nott rolled his eyes, then proceeded to stand up, "I told him this morning that if he ends up looking like an imbecile, I will not help him," then, he grabbed Avery's head from the table, pulling it back so he could laugh in his face, "You are on your own, buddy, I am going to Schrivenshaft's Quill Shop. I am out of ink."

With that, the sandy-haired boy left the Inn, and Icarus sighed as he hoisted Avery up, "God, you reek of alcohol. Malfoy, grab Rosier, and we will take the passage from Honeydukes. God forbid Slughorn sees them like this."

Then, he turned towards Varya, who had her eyes trained on Tom Riddle as he scribbled notes in his textbook, and Icarus hesitated in leaving the two alone, but then he glanced at Elladora and gave her a silent plea. Their years of friendship had made it so that the two understood each other well, and the girl nodded in confirmation.

Lestrange, Malfoy, and the two drunken children exited the pub, and now all stood in the hands of Selwyn. Unfortunately, the witch had her own kind of plan. She had noticed the brief exchanges between Petrov and Riddle, and knew that if she managed to get the fellow witch to take one miscalculated step and break Icarus' trust, the boy would have no choice but to dump her.

So Elladora raised her hand to the barman and made him bring a new set of beers to their table, thanking him with a gentle smile and a delicate eyelash flutter. She turned her eyes to Varya, then offered her a drink.

"Trying to poison me again, are you?" Petrov scoffed and pushed the drink away.

"That is absurd, Petrov, and this constant rivalry has to end," she threw Riddle a look, who was now glancing between the two of them, "Look, Riddle will drink one just to prove to you that they are not poisoned. After all, I would never dare to such a thing to him."

Tom narrowed his eyes at the redhead, "What makes you think you can order me around, Selwyn?"

However, Varya's scoff caught him off guard, and he turned to look at her mocking stare, "Exactly, Selwyn. Besides, you actually believe that Riddle would do something fun, ever? Must have confused him with Lestrange."

There it was again, the painful twist in his guts, and Tom frowned at her words. Is that what she appreciated in Icarus, his recklessness? That was ridiculous; the boy was not superior to Tom in any way. So he growled as he took the glass from Selwyn's hands, throwing his head back as he downed it.

Then, he slammed the glass in front of Varya, who met his eyes in a challenge, "Your turn."

The witch scoffed, then grabbed her own glass, and drank its contents swiftly, ignoring the way the bitter taste made her want to spit it back. Riddle would not best her.

Elladora smirked as she watched the two engage in their usual game of self-destruction, unaware that they had such control over another. It was pitiful to see Riddle affected like this, even more so when the boy was oblivious to it, and yet she could not bring herself to judge him. After all, she had been pinning over Icarus for years, and yet she never made a move out of fear. Tom looked down on affection, he thought love to be a weakness, and so he would never have accepted Elladora pursuing Icarus. Now, with Varya in the scene, not only was he too distracted to notice, but perhaps the witch would make him less strict.

Not that he would ever love her back, but all it took was the slightest infatuation.

Another round of drinks came, and whenever the boy drank, the girl followed swiftly, except her tolerance was much lower despite Riddle not being an avid drinker. Elladora excused herself to go to the toilet, grabbed her rob in the process, and headed out the exit. Let them succumb to their desires; let them implode.

Varya groaned as she held her head in her hands, everything around her moving slowly and circularly, and when she glanced at Tom and noticed his composure, she whimpered. He had unfastened the few buttons of his dress shirt that stood underneath his sweater, and his cheeks were coated in a dark rogue as his body tried to break down the alcohol. His eyes were moving at a faster speed than average, and his lips were slightly parted as he looked back at her. He had the sort of look in his eyes that promised a hellish time and a mess of tears, and she found that she did not quite care. Despite that, he was as lucid as usual, only barely letting the drinks get to his mind.

"How are you barely tipsy?" she inquired, words so muffled they were barely tangible. Her hand reached out to his face, poking the boy's cheek, but he merely swatted it away. Yet, when he glared at her, it was not half as menacing as it had been before. Such an amusing boy he was, and she dragged her chair closer to him, fully submerging in his mahogany scent.

"I have self-control," he mumbled, looking at the girl in front of him with the usual impassiveness. "I think you should call it a night before you do something rash."

"Tom?" she spoke suddenly, almost as if she had not quite processed his words. Varya was too entranced by his face, and she looked at him with the kind of warmth not many experienced in their lives.

"Yes?"

_I think I love you._

"I think I am going to be sick."

"Merlin, compose yourself," he sighed, then got up from his seat, his moved slightly sluggish, "We have to head back, come on."

He did not wait for her to get up and simply walked out into the street and out of the Inn. Tom looked at his watch and noticed that they were well past curfew at this point, then he let out a small curse as he thought about what he should do. He had come to Hogsmeade using a passage, and he assumed so did Petrov, and yet that one would lead to the hallway, and they would surely get noticed.

The door opened behind him, and he felt the warm air clash against his back, then it closed, muffling the sound of the pub to nothing but a whisper. Something grabbed at his sleeve, and he saw Varya Petrov stumbling forward, grasping on him for support.

He grabbed her elbow, ignoring the way his hand tingled and dragged her forward towards the Tomes and Scrolls bookshop, where he knew another secret passage stood behind one of the bookshelves. It led to the Room of Requirement, and it had been created specifically for Tom so that he could sneak in during the night and read if he so pleased. He could not afford to buy the books, so he had to think of something else, and the tunnel was the best idea.

He covered Varya's mouth as she wanted to protest, then dragged her inside the shop and behind an old bookcase. He felt at the shelves, then pulled on a book that was hidden between a few dull volumes, and the gateway opened.

They walked in the darkness, eventually coming out at the other end, where the room had conjured a warm fireplace, fenced by two chairs and a small couch, and the boy led Varya to it, placing her down.

Merlin, she was an absolute mess, and she fell to her side, face squishing against the comforter, "So velvety," she mumbled, patting the seat with her hand. Then, she looked at Tom, who had an appalled look on his face, "What? Never seen a drunk woman, Riddle?"

"No," he said truthfully as he sat down in one of the chairs, warming his cold body by the fire, "Not quite like this, but you tend to surprise me."

Varya looked at him as he sat in his chair, legs crossed and chin in his hand, so aristocratic in nature, it was easy to forget where he had come from. He had taken off his sweater, and it was now draped over the chair's back, and his white shirt still had a few buttons undone. His anemone-pink lips were pulled in a thin line, and his gloomy expression contorted into displeasure, whereas the somber arctic melted in his eyes. Tom's curls were not styled, nor gelled, and they fell in voluptuous curls around his features, dark like the ash that proceeded the burning of a robust tree.

"Riddle," she breathed, and when his eyes met hers, she could not help but tremble under their intensity. "What are you thinking about?"

Such a tender moment, something so momentary, and yet the boy had let his guard down, and he did not know if it was because of the alcohol or _her damned smile_ , "Death."

Varya threw her head back in a mesmerizing laugh, "How come?"

But, what could he tell her? She would not understand. In fact, she would be completely mortified by the idea of Horcruxes, and the boy thought she already knew too much as was.

"Are you scared of it?" she challenged, making her way to sit by his chair on the wine carpeting that covered the cold floor. The thought of Tom Riddle being alarmed by something was so perplexing that she wanted to reach out to him, make sure he was still there.

"Nothing scares me, Petrov, you should know that by now," his timbre was dastardly and deadly, and he leaned closer to her, tilting his head as his eyes had the slightest flicker of...something...in them, "However, it would be terrible if a bright mind like mind succumbed to something as mundane as mortality. I am better than those who preceded me, and I will make sure I—"

His words got caught in his throat as he realized what he was doing, how much he was divulging, and he stopped himself, but it was already too late. The girl had caught on.

"Immortality," she breathed, standing to her knees from the ground to look at him, "You want to be immortal."

Stillness. Muteness. Tension. The slightest eyebrow raise, and Tom would be sent into a storm of rage and catastrophe, and as he grabbed the girl by the hair on the nape of her neck, pulling her to meet his enraged stare, Varya went into a petrified state of fear. There was no trace of humanity left in the boy, he was as monstrous as any creature Varya had come across, and he pulled at a hair with a painful tug, making her wince.

"Petrov, you are getting on my last nerve," he growled, and then his hand switched from her hair to her neck, and he pushed her to the ground as she squirmed underneath, her mind still hazy from the drinks, "When will you learn not to meddle with my affairs? You will end up dead, you stupid witch, and that would be a shame."

"And who is going to murder me, Riddle? You?" she choked out as the boy tightened his grip, one knee down beside her, "Please, if you wanted me dead, I would already be singing in Hell with Satan, and hear this— I do not fear death, I savor it. Furthermore, when my time comes, I will make sure to leave an apocalypse behind me."

Tom scoffed, then released the girl and got up. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, ignoring the way his whole body was on fire, and sat down in his chair. He watched Varya on the ground, as she struggled to regain her pattern of breath, mind barely clearing up.

Petrov's hands went up to her throat, and she felt the burn where his hand had been. He had not squeezed hard enough to kill her; that was not his intention. No, Tom had wanted to remind her just how easy it would be for him to end her. She let a bitter chuckle past her lips, and her tongue pressed against her cheek in nuisance.

Varya glanced at him and marveled at his hostile face. God, he was a sinful man, and his fiendish eyes were trained on her with effervescence and sadism, so destructively enamoring. Tom was a macabre character, and she should have been repulsed by his devilish mind, and yet it was one of the things that had connected the pair.

_They would both sing together in Hell, goddamn it._

She got up swiftly, then reached out to Riddle's knees, grasping them forcefully. He was looking at her in curiosity, and when Varya raised and leaned over his frame, and their faces stood mere inches apart, Tom found himself captivated.

His eyes trailed her figure as his hands twitched by his side, and some part of him wanted to reach out to her, just like he had in the forest. Her melon lips were so close, and her scent was intoxicating. Tom's head buzzed from alcohol and perfume of a woman he had not quite figure out, the kind of feeling that drives any powerful man to his knees. He would not be aware of this at that time but, perhaps, Varya Petrov was becoming his weakness.

Varya herself had her mind swirling with temptation. What she was doing was so terribly wrong, lusting after a boy who was not her boyfriend, and it made her want to put the knife against her own neck.

But it was his that the blade touched.

" _Again_?" his voice did not quiver to the threat, utterly unfazed by the dagger. It was not the first time she was threatening him, and yet it felt completely different. Before, it had been the slightest notion of fear that had passed through his veins. Now, it was something new, a sentiment that he had never experienced, almost like excitement tingling on the surface of his being. Riddle's mind had never been this foggy, and yet the girl seemed so clear.

Varya breathed deeply, dragging the tip along his neck so calmly, humming to herself a quiet song. He was making her go mad in a way that she had never been, a creeping need making its way to her senses, and she was hyperaware of how one of her hands was still rested on his leg, and she had wholly climbed on the chair, thighs resting on each side of the boy.

"Each time it gets less impressive," he continued and looked down at her hand, wondering why he felt it so extensively despite the layers of clothing between them. His hand reached out to her waist, squeezing at it, and _God, he had never quite experienced something like this._

"I surrendered a long time ago, Riddle. I am not trying to impress you," she answered, then gazed at him with unfocused eyes, "You put your hands against my neck, I put my dagger on yours. Both of us could kill the other— no, do not interrupt me— I could kill you, be aware of it. Moreover, I could do it and shatter that absurd fantasy of yours, but I choose not to. And you choose not to kill me either. You want to know why?"

"Enlighten me."

"Because we both know that you need me, I have magic you have not seen before, and that rattles you completely. I am this puzzle you cannot quite solve, and good boys do not discard on their toys before playing," She was so close he was almost intoxicated. Nevertheless, his heart drummed at her defiance, and her eyes held something darker now.

"You must be insane if you think you have any right to talk to me like this," he growled, "And I do not need anyone, Petrov."

Ridiculous, and a lie at that, the girl knew he was bluffing. So she pulled the dagger away, then grabbed his hand, and put it in his. Before the boy could say anything, she raised his hand to her neck, pressing the edge of the dagger against it.

"So kill me, Riddle," she challenged him, letting her temper get the best of her. Her rational part, the one that was now swimming in the toxicity of alcohol, was screaming at the girl to stop, knowing damn well that the boy was capable of doing it. Moreover, there was this demon on her shoulder cackling madly as he whispered words in her ear, and the voice took over her being as she pressed her own dagger harder. "Kill me, or admit you need me."

"You are deranged," he whispered, and yet he did not drag the knife away from her neck; instead, he grasped it harder. "I will never need you, Varya."

It was so alluring, so tempting just to slit her throat and let her bleed over him, gargling on her own blood. He would have enjoyed it too, seeing something as gruesome as death overtake such a beautiful face, almost like tainting a pure maiden with his own sinfulness. She had gone haywire, and he wondered if Varya had always been this hot-headed, and he had completely overlooked it.

Yet, something else had taken over the girl, and her consciousness fell in the back seat of something evil that had been plaguing her mind for months, maybe even years. There was this oddness to her, something that had never resurfaced until her memories had started coming back, and now it was blowing at full force.

The girl put the tip of the knife on the side of her neck, and started dragging it slowly, making a small incision that bled forcefully and stained the boy's white shirt.

Tom's eyes enlarged, and it was then that he tried to pull his hand away, clarity coming back to his mind, "Varya, stop! What is wrong with you?"

Her other hand grasped his, and forced it right back, completely overpowering the man with a force that she should not have been capable of, fighting her best against his resistance. Her neck bled rapidly, although she had not nicked any major artery or vein yet, and she felt the fogginess take over her mind. Her blood had begun pumping faster, loathing the man's words and how they hurt her feeble heart.

He was so toxic, so utterly infuriating, and screamed of deprivation and sin to the point she wanted to burst into flames. Her head whirled, and the wrath overtook her senses. Varya wanted to hurt him.

_She was mad, mad, mad, mad._

And then the darkness started spilling on the floor again, and she felt her magic slip from her ears, and nose, and eyes. A sinister smile took over, and at that moment, Varya Petrov was lost to something that she was not, and her essence vanished behind a foggy glass of macabre. The fire that burned in the room intensified, sparks flying on the old carpet, and it caught alight with a glare of fanatic flares. 

Tom Riddle struggled to fight against the girl, and his panicked eyes met hers in a haste moment, but there was no Varya Petrov before him, just a vessel of a girl with eyes as white as the snow that had fallen when he had broken her mind. 


	37. chapter thirty-five

THE MELLOW HUM of a melodious voice permeated the dreary room, and Matron Lawrence wandered around with crucial steps, mopping the spilled blood that had adorned the stone ground in a dismal red. She dipped the mop in the bucket, although the water had become the same shade as the liquid on the floor, then proceeded to swipe at the crimson.

Fewer beds, fewer children. Half of them had not made it through the winter, and that was a disappointment altogether. Their weak bodies could not take the anguish, nor the torment, and the tombs continued to scatter amongst Scholomance's yard.

The woman shifted to the two children that were awake and responsive and saw them gawking at the corpse that was laid out on the surgery table, stomach open, and intestines dangling from the cavity. Oh, she had forgotten to discard that, _so silly of her_.

Varya blinked away the repugnance that pooled in her guts and swatted away the flies that had started buzzing around the windowless room. The metallic smell of human discomposure was predominant. Her eyes fell on the plate in front of her— stale bread and a stew that had only bone in it. She found that she was no longer hungry.

Ivan was in a similar state, and when the Matron was not looking, the girl reached out to clasp his tremulous fingers. They only had each other now, and they had to look after one another if they wanted to get through this.

The lycanthrope had been going in and out of the catacombs, more so than her, and every time he came back, he would have his memories altered. They toyed with their brains, testing various methods on both of them. Lawrence had said multiple times that if anyone were to make it through it all, it would be Ivan and Varya. They were more potent than the rest and could endure so much more.

Nevertheless, they all had their breaking point.

The door swung open, and the children detached their hands as Dalibor walked in, accompanied by a western witch dressed in exquisite clothing. He sneered at the body on the table, and with a flick of his hand, let it burst into black flames before it was gone entirely.

"I told you we had a guest; you should have prepared," he gnarled, and even with half of his face in the dark, Varya still felt her eyes water at his hideous features. He was a dark, dark man.

Lawrence apologized speedily, then pushed the bucket beneath a table. It did not do much— the room would always be filled with the metallic smell.

The western witch approached the children, and her features pulled in a tight smile. She was breathtaking, an odd addition to the macabre scenery. Varya looked at the badge on her azure robe— V.R. in a pleasant font.

"Is this the one?" her French accent made her even more alluring, and when Dalibor grunted an affirming sound, she turned to Varya. A delicate digit trailed the girl's sooty face, where dirt had started to cling to porcelain features covered in transpiration, and then she hummed in understanding. "Grindelwald wants you to block her memories, not abuse her to the point of malnourishment. Look at her—" she grabbed Varya's shirt and pulled her to her feet, then let her fall to the ground in her weak state, "— how will she lead a battle if she cannot even stand up? You know how important she is to the cause; she is not another one of your usual repulsive experiments."

Lawrence nodded quickly, eyes cast down in shame, but the Dark Priest held the witch's defiant stare, "If you put her in our care, we get to decide what happens to her. Her blood is powerful enough to—"

"I could care less. You will cease treating her as such immediately, and send her back to the surface," The woman turned to Varya, and tilted her head in discontent. "Say, child— can you perform magic?"

Varya glanced at Lawrence, who gestured forward, urging her to show her powers. The young girl nodded, then trained her eyes on a nearby chamber pot, and with a flick of the wrist, it burst into impressive dark flames. Ivan growled behind her, but a silent shake of the head told him to keep quiet.

The western witch hummed, "So then, you have achieved what Grindelwald asked of you. Send her above."

"But, Miss—"

"I do not care for your opinion, Matron," the witch bit back brutally. She made her way to the door, not even sparing a glance to anyone except Varya, "There is only one thing that matters, and that is making sure this girl survives long enough to lead our cause. _For the greater good_."

***

The Room of Requirement had stood as Hogwarts' most prideful secrets for decades, and those who knew of it whispered that it had been Helga Hufflepuff's ingenious creation— a room that responded to those in need. It had had many names along the years, the most recent one being the Come and Go Room, but it had changed when the Knights had taken it over. Nevertheless, the chamber should have stood pridefully in the Hogwarts castle for many more years, had it not been for Varya Petrov burning it to the ground.

Tom Riddle watched as the flames approached them in a fury, and his eyes flashed back to the girl that was now bleeding over him steadily, cackling madly as she watched her crimson liquid spill on their conjoined hands.

He tried pulling the knife away, but her grip was firm, and he breathed heavily as he schemed a way to escape. He had little time left, the room would soon turn to ash before his eyes, and so he did the most rational thing he could, despite knowing that the girl would hate him the next morning.

" _Imperio!_ "

His curse hit the girl fastly, and he immediately ordered her to drop the knife to the floor. It clashed against the stone, and Tom took his sweater and compressed it against Varya's open wound, ignoring the way her eyes flashed between white and onyx. He hoisted her up, although, for a second, he debated just leaving the damned witch behind, then something pounded at his skull, and so he picked her up and dragged her out of the room.

He dashed out of the smoking room, letting the door slam and disappear behind him, not caring if the flames extended to the rest of the castle. Tom only cared about one thing at the moment, and it was to stop Varrya from bleeding out on him.

He entered the Slytherin Common Room, thanking Merling that it was past nighttime, and the only figure that waited for him in the chamber was Abraxas Malfoy. When he saw the bleeding girl in his leader's arms, his mind immediately assumed the worse— had Tom Riddle tried to kill Varya Petrov?

"It was not me," remarked Tom as he cast a fleet charm on the stairs to their room and carried the girl up the stairs, Malfoy right behind, "She fucking tried to slit her own throat."

"What in Merlin's name," grumbled Icarus Lestrange as he slowly woke up from his bed, the noise stirring him awake. When he saw his girlfriend's body flag in another man's arms, he immediately threw the covers to the side and rushed to pick up Varya. Tom stopped him with a scowl, and he had to watch as the girl he loved was in the care of another. "What happened?"

"What do you think, Lestrange? Use your primate brain to figure that one out," Tom nipped back, and although he was harsh on his followers, he rarely insulted them openly, preferring to inflict pain on them simply.

"It is awakening," blurted Malfoy, understanding how everything was tied up with the document Rosier had presented them. "But, how?"

"I have no clue, Malfoy," breathed Tom as he instructed Lestrange to heal the girl's wounds quickly, and Icarus sprung to action, casting as many charms as he could remember from his own battles. "Because I do not understand how it was dormant in the first place."

The door opened, and in stumbled Nicholas Avery and Renold Rosier, still tipsy from their eventful evening, and Nott followed closely behind, giving the group an apologetic look at the commotion.

"They heard Riddle's voice and wanted to come and see what was going on, idiots," mumbled Maxwell as he helped Avery slump against the wall.

"Why is Riddle's girl bleeding?" inquired Rosier cheaply, only to be struck over the head by Nott, who shot his eyes to Icarus, "I mean Lestrnage's girlfriend, sorry, you look so similar, and sometimes I mix the two of you up— a bad habit, really. Do not drink, guys. All right, I will shut up now."

The tautness between Icarus and Tom was evident, and they exchanged a brief look before going back to their task— helping Varya. Icarus had to bite back the distress, as he knew that he could not stand up against his Lord, and yet the moist eyes were a telling of his misfortune. He was not as blind as they all thought him to be, he saw the way Varya would glance at Tom, but he had tricked himself into thinking it was merely fascination for his character, the same way that Selwyn appreciated Riddle.

However, that did not explain how they always gravitated towards each other, and while he knew that Tom did not love the girl, something told Icarus that he had already lost the battle for her affection. How amusing it was, that he loved someone that was aiming for another person, who, in turn, did not love her.

"Shut up, rascals," groaned Avery, then pointed at the witch's body, "She is waking up anyway."

Sure enough, Varya's eyes flew open, and she gasped for air as her whole body shut up, lungs still filled with the fire's smoke. She scrambled off of the bed and onto the floor, coughing madly as her air ducts constricted and relaxed repeatedly.

"What did you do to me?" she challenged Riddle, voice raspy from the smog.

The boy scoffed, "I did nothing! You are the one who put a knife against your own throat and told me—" He stopped as he felt five pairs of eyes watching him. Tom did not want to discuss this in their prying presence, and so he simply gnarred and twisted around to leave the room. The door slammed behind him.

Varya looked after him with aversion and yearning, unsure of whether to follow him or not, but Abraxas was more agile. The Malfoy heir left the room, shooting the girl a prying glance before he closed the door. The rest of the boys looked at Icarus, who simply nodded his head for them to leave the couple alone, and so Maxwell groaned and picked the boys up off of the floor.

"All right, the spectacle is over. Back to bed, you imbeciles," he announced as he pushed them out, then turned around to give Varya one last look, almost a goodnight. Perhaps the girl was growing on him.

With only Lestrange and Petrov left in the room, the tension seemed to disperse, and warm arms embraced the girl. She let herself fall back in the comfort that was Icarus Lestrange, and clung on his gray sleepwear with a need for stability. He lowered his head and pressed a chaste kiss on her burning forehead, moving the strands of hair that had stuck to her cheeks away so that he could get a better look at her.

Something had changed about the girl's appearance, almost as if the distress had made her age by a few years, and had stolen a piece of her beauty. He told himself he did not mind, although he found it strange, but he could not deny the truth. Icarus had grown to love her regardless of that, and so when he brought her to lay on his bed for rest, he did not mind the dead eyes that stared at him in appreciation.

The boy knew that he should have been questioning her, asking what had happened between Tom and her, and yet he feared it might push Varya further away from him, so he only skimmed her cheeks with his fingers, trying his best to keep silent on the matter.

Varya, on the other hand, was lost in her thoughts, almost oblivious to her boyfriend's tender touch, as she tried to recall what she had said. The witch remembered the beer, and the conversation they had had— how Tom desired immortality, and how he was set on achieving it. She had pressed a knife to his neck yet again after he had tried to strangle her, but what had she done after that?

Her hand flew to the skin on her neck, where the smallest scar had begun to form, and it itched severely, so she scratched, pulling at the closing skin.

"Stop that," remarked Icarus as he took her hand in his and pulled it away, and that was the catalyst that her fogged memory needed because Varya's brain was suddenly filled with the memory of Riddle's hand in hers, holding a knife.

He had been truthful with her— it was Varya that had done this to herself, and yet, at the same time, it was not her. She had not been in control of her actions, and she remembered how she had felt at that moment with repulsion. It was almost as if she was watching a movie before her eyes, and her voice had almost gone rugged at how much she had been screaming at the screen to _just stop_.

"I do not know what is going on with me," she told Icarus softly, and the boy sighed as he felt the guilt eat at him alive.

He knew exactly what was going on with the girl, and yet he could not bring himself to tell her because Tom was right. If Varya managed to one day control what was going on, she could be a powerful weapon above all. For that to happen, however, they needed Tom to fulfill his part of the plan. It was for the best because they all knew that if Varya found out before they managed to get what they needed, there was little chance for her survival.

Perhaps the girl was in the wrong for leading him on, that was true, and yet what he was hiding from her was much more gruesome, and if she ever found out, Icarus feared he would never be forgiven.

So he lied— again, and again, and again, "It is all right, my dear. Everything will be just fine."

***

Felix helped Varya carry a box to another corner in the theatre room, and the girl groaned as she arched her back to let it drop on the floor. She had become the apprentice of Professor Kettleburn, and the training so far had been rigorous. Silvanus Kettleburn was not your usual man, he was the odd sort, and he enjoyed endangering himself in pursuit of other magical creatures.

He had been more than delighted to have Varya assist him, and had pestered her with multiple questions on her teachings at Scholomance, how they handled such dangerous creatures that not even Newt Scamander had documented yet, and Felix could only give her a whimsical smile as he watched her fret.

Part of her had known what she was getting herself into, and yet it has still been exhausting to keep up with the man as he ran around the castle like a maddened chicken whose head had just been cut off, his two assistants scrambling to pick up every mess that he left behind. Varya understood why Felix wanted to quit.

The Head-Boy was still around, though, and would often come to get her out of the mud when things became too heavy. For instance, once, the Professor had brought a few Nifflers to his classroom so that he could explain their kleptomaniac tendencies, and during a moment of absence, the small creatures had sneaked around the class and stolen a bunch of jewelry from the students. Varya and Felix had spent their day running around the corridors to catch them and had even gotten Della Beauchamp to give them a helping hand.

Without even realizing, the three had entered some sort of unspoken camaraderie and were now always seen walking around Hogwarts together. It was an exciting feeling, having another friend that was not associated with Riddle or the other Slytherins, and Varya found that she enjoyed Felix's presence. Although he was to graduate soon and was two years ahead of her, the boy had taken the two girls under his wing and had started treating them as sisters.

"Did Della say anything about tonight?" Felix inquired as he took off his tie and unbuttoned his collar, already sweating due to carrying so many boxes around the room. The window was open, and a light breeze was coming through the window, ruffling his hair. The month of February had barely started, and yet the weather had already shifted slightly.

"Tonight?" Varya asked mindlessly, and when Parkin gave her a weird look, she remembered, "Oh, about sneaking to the kitchens? I do not know if that is a good idea, Felix."

"Ridiculous, have a little faith in us! The Hufflepuffs have given me the directions to the entrance during the night in exchange for my silence, and it is only reasonable we investigate ourselves. I hear they are preparing candy canes for Valentine's Day," the boy said eagerly as he stuck his head out the window.

The rehearsal room was on the fifth floor in one of the towers, as Professor Beery had requested an unused office to be transformed into an amphitheater. The stage was small, with mustard yellow curtains that had seen better days, and it was awfully crowded, but the play was to be a pantomime, and so they did not need much space to begin with.

Even so, the view from the window was lovely, as it overlooked the Great Lake and central courtyard. Felix saw a few Gryffindors standing by the lake's margins, throwing pebbles around and trying to make them skit on the water's surface.

"Are you not the Head-Boy? Why are you breaking so many rules? First blackmail, now sneaking around— good gracious Felix, one might believe you are a troublemaker."

"First of all, Varya, being a good student does not make me a rule follower, nor some sort of angel." he began, and the girl could only nod as her mind drifted to the Slytherin male prefect, who was quite the sinister being despite his apparent perfectness, "Secondly, this is my last semester here, and I would like to enjoy myself and do things I have not been brave enough to do before. School flies by without us even realizing, and sometimes we get so caught up in the bigger picture that we forget to settle for a second, breathe, and enjoy the smallest moments. Adulthood will not be that great, and I sure will miss days like this."

Varya peered at his face, seeing the bittersweetness that dripped from his grin as he looked over the Hogwarts yard with wistfulness. He had grown up at Hogwarts, and now it was almost time for him to leave, and the girl knew it would be the same as a small bird leaving the mother's nest. It was inevitable, and yet it was still saddening.

"You can always come to visit," she spoke slowly, "I am sure Kettleburn would love to have you clean his prosthetic leg from time to time."

Felix laughed at that, remembering the good times he had had at Hogwarts, and the bad, and sighed deeply. He would miss it. "God, I sound like an old man."

"You do," giggled Varya, then threw a dusty towel at him, "Now clean up the back rows before we get scolded."

The boy grumbled in distaste, then made his way to the back of the room, and started dusting off some of the vintage chairs. They were still sturdy, with fine details engraved in wood, but he could tell they needed some tinkering.

Varya went backstage to pick up some dresses that the crew had made for the play and smiled as she passed some actresses before her eyes landed on Ivy Trouche and Elladora Selwyn. The two had both auditioned for the role of Amata, the witch who had been heartbroken by her lover, and now sought to bathe in the Fountain and "be cured of her grief and longing," and yet it had been Ivy who got the main lead. Elladora had eventually acquired Asha's role, who was gravely ill and wanted to be cured by the Fountain. Varya found it ironic considering the girl's meddling with potions, but she made no comment on it.

The Knight's role had gone to Frederick Weasley, a pureblood Gryffindor with a mess of red hair and hand-me-down robes. Despite his apparent monetary misfortune, Frederick was a gentleman, and he had been courting Walburga Black, notwithstanding the girl's constant refusals.

"He is considered a blood-traitor," revealed Ivy when Varya had questioned her, "They most definitely fancy each other, but the Black family is strict on pureblood lineages; Alphard always complained about it. He still let me go, though, so perhaps it is not the most important thing on their mind."

"Are they brother and sister?" questioned Varya, who had not really seen the two Slytherins interact much.

"Oh, dear, yes. They do not get along well because— well, I am not quite sure. All I know is that she is supposed to marry Orion Black after graduation, so poor Frederick is heartbroken."

"Wait, Black? But does that not mean they are—?"

"Related? Yes, they are second cousins," said Elladora from her makeup table, and she turned to look at her two roommates. The dust had started to settle between her and Varya, neither having the energy to continue their feud and while they would never be friends again, they had become more civil. No poisoning, no knocking each other out, "I would not be surprised if Alphard has the same fate, and that is why he broke up with you, Trouche."

"You are so wretched."

"Only when I must be."

Varya had soon discovered that the two girls had had an ongoing rivalry for most of their life, with the Selwyn and Trouche families always being at each other's throats. Although they were both pureblood lineages, they did not hold the same power as the "Four Horsemen" — as they were called in the wizarding world— Malfoy, Black/Lestrange, Rosier, and Nott. They were, however, next in line. That caused great tension, and even the heiresses had grown to be rivals. That only intensified when Ivy became Slytherin's Golden Girl and took the prefect position right from Selwyn's nose.

Elladora had complained the whole first semester about it, Lestrange had told Varya, and would not stop pointing out how unfair it was. She had also lost the spot in Slughorn's group to Trouche, and now the play had added salt to an already existing wound. Selwyn had always been an envious person, and there was nothing more that she hated than having things that she believed to be hers stolen.

All throughout rehearsals, Varya had resumed her role as a mediator for the two, much as she had been initially, and although she wanted to take Ivy's side on most things, she had learned that an annoyed Elladora meant more extended rehearsals. And Varya had better things to do.

Felix came to the backstage, saluting the two actresses, and tapped the Easterner on the shoulder, "There is someone here for you."

Varya frowned at his words. She was not expecting anyone as far as she knew. Della had been preoccupied with an Astrology assignment, and Icarus was in detention due to a miscalculated prank against Professor Merrythought. Part of her had been excited, thinking that it was Riddle, whom she had not seen in the past week.

So when she saw Lopheus Evergreen sitting on a chair in the back, feet thrown over the rows in front of him and a typical cigarette in his hand, her heart deflated slightly. Her curiosity, however, peaked, and so she went to him with careful strides.

"No smoking allowed," she spoke with a smile and snapped her fingers to make his cigarette disappear.

"Damn it, Petrov. It was the last one I had in this pack— expensive at that," Lopheus sighed, arms going behind his head as he sat leisurely.

"What are you doing here?" The girl sat in a row in front of him, head on the chair's backrest as she analyzed him. He was wearing comfortable clothes, a nice shirt, gray pants, and had a fitted vest on top of it all. His hair was no longer gelled back, strands of blonde hair falling around messily.

"If I said I transferred, would you believe me?"

"No," the girl laughed, shaking her head at his behavior. She understood why he got along with Avery and Lestrtrange so well, and did not want to be witness to one of their escapades as a trio.

"Thought so," the boy's cyan eyes sparkled with poisonous humor, "Family business in Europe, I have to take care of some things. Thought I would drop by to say a quick hello to Riddle, update him on Grindelwald, and then I found something fascinating— apparently, there was an odd Slavic witch that decided to burn down the Knight's meeting room, and ah! How much it displeased the Lord."

Varya hoisted an eyebrow at the word "lord", but let it slide and continued the light banter, "I would not want to meet her, then."

"Oh! How scandalous of you! Nevertheless, you should, after all, there are few witches capable of burning one of Hogwarts' most ancient rooms," he singsonged. Then, he turned solemn, and he got his feet off of the chairs to lean in and speak in a hushed voice, "But that is not all I am here for, Varya. I have a bit of news for you, and this is something you should not tell Riddle, or Lestrange— do not tell anyone, as a matter of fact."

"Are you not one of Riddle's followers?"

"Yes, I suppose. In hindsight, though, I am a one-person party, and I come and go as I please. The American way is quite different, you see. Anyhow, enough chitchat, back to business," he pulled out a newspaper and passed it over to her, and Varya took it in her hands with suspicion, glancing at the title— "Grindelwald loses another battle, Dark Wizard flees Lestrange Mausoleum."

Varya frowned, unsure of what to make of it, as the paper itself was dated back to 1928. The photographs showed some convention, and the girl saw the multitude of wizards that sat to listen to the wizard's speech.

"What are you trying to hint at, Evergreen?" she asked him, and the boy scurried his eyes around the room before letting his finger stop on a photo on the second page.

"Look at it closely, Varya."

And that is when grief struck the girl, and the impact was so hard she was sent in a spiral of rheumy eyes and painful sniffs. There they were, her father and her mother, standing by the stage and applauding the man who would cause their demise.

She barely recognized them, and it was such a strange feeling to see them in the animated picture with prideful smirks on their faces as they applauded a cruel leader. Her mother, Lyudmila, had a tight smile, half crooked, and a pointy nose that Varya had inherited. Cornelius was even more boastful, and he kept nodding his head repeatedly to whatever Grindelwald was saying.

It felt as if they were strangers, and yet they were so painstakingly familiar to her.

Then, she noticed a small blob of dark hair beside them, and the girl narrowed her eyes to look at the small figure. It was her, barely three years old, and she was looking around the mausoleum in wonder. That did not make sense, Varya thought, because everyone had told her that they had left her behind in Romania. Nevertheless, there she was by their side.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked Lopheus, who only shrugged in response. She did not trust him, and perhaps this was Riddle manipulating her again, telling her to follow a path that she had been wary of for her whole life.

"Because if I were you, I would want to know that people had lied to me about my childhood. Plus, I have my own repulsion against Grindelwald and his followers. That man has cost me dearly, and I know how it feels to lose your family to his fanaticism," he explained, and his eyes lost focus as he stared off into the room, memories flashing before his eyes at a painful speed— _her_ smile.

"Thank you," Varya answered, and she was grateful for two reasons— one, this proved that Grindelwald had, in fact, taken her after her parents died at the mausoleum (it only made sense, as she could not have made her way back to Romania on her own, and her parents had been loyal to him, so he had probably felt indebted); two, it was the first picture of her mother and father that she owned.

Lopheus gave her a sincere smile, then got up and stretched his legs, "I must go, Petrov. I hope we see each other soon, and I will make sure to stop by on my way back and salute you."

He gave a small bow, then turned around and left the room in a hurry. He still had some unattended business to get to with Riddle, and his mind was swirling as he thought of what lay ahead of him. There was trepidation in his bones, and as he passed a window on the fourth floor, he allowed himself a moment of peacefulness.

Lopheus Evergreen looked over the estate of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy and watched as the restless Black Lake rumbled on the horizon. The sun had begun to set, and the last few patches of snow had begun melting into ponds of mud and vegetation. Nature was rebirthing, and each day that passed marked the beginning of something new, of hope.

Then, he vanished into the sea of students.

It had been Felixius that had awoken Varya from her trance, as the boy was concerned over his friend's grimace, "Everything all right, child?"

The girl blinked away the last few tears, eyelashes watered and lifted, and gave the Head-Boy a grateful smile, "Yes, sorry, a friend I met over the winter break came to bring me something. Uh, you were saying— about the kitchens?"

Felix's face lit up, and he dragged the girl out of the room and into the vast corridors, rambling on and on about the candy that the House-Elves would give them, and how excited he was for it. Varya only listened to half of what he was saying, mind on something else altogether, and she tried to keep a sincere expression as they reached the Ravenclaw Tower.

They stopped in front of a door with no handle or knob, only a knocker in the shape of an eagle, and Varya frowned as she saw Felix knock with it, before she heard a voice, " _Forward, I am heavy. Backward, I am not. What am I?_ "

"Want to have a go at it?" asked Felix as he looked at the girl, "You must answer a riddle if you seek entrance; we do not have a set password."

Varya nodded with excitement and allowed herself a moment of thought as she recalled the words, before answering confidently, "A ton."

The door swung open, revealing the Ravenclaw Common Room, and the girl stepped in, ecstatic at the idea of visiting another House's dormitories. The Ravenclaw chamber was very different compared to the Slytherin dungeons, so much so that the girl could say it was quite the opposite.

The room was astonishingly airy, with artistic arched windows spawning from the top to the bottom of some of the walls, wind hitting against the margins, and creating a quaint whirl. They overlooked the forest, and Varya could only imagine how majestic the sky must have looked at night. There was a divan before the entrance to the dormitory staircase, and Rowena Ravenclaw's statue guarded the door with a solemn face, features sculpted in the whitest of marble. Fine silk hung from the dome, pinching on the walls in semilunar shapes, and the starry carpet reflected on the high ceiling.

"Impressive, right?" said Felix with a proud smirk, "Must be quite different from the Dungeons."

"Sod off, Parkin," cracked Varya, pushing him as they made their way to the divan Della was sitting on. She was hanging off the edge, her head almost touching the ground, and a book sat between her delicate fingers.

When she saw them approach, she twisted swiftly and pushed off of the couch to run up to them, bouncy tawny hair falling over her freckled face. Varya had never quite appreciated Della's beauty as she should have, since her personality usually shinned above else, and yet in the bright light of the Ravenclaw Common Room, the girl sparkled with allure. She was shorter than Varya by a few inches, and her heart-shaped face always wore an intoxicating smile. Her honey eyes were contoured by fluffy eyebrows that had slightly spiraled out of control, and yet they gave her face more structure. She had lips on the thinner side, or perhaps it was just that they were always pulled upwards, revealing charismatic dimples, and her button nose was covered in dotted freckles.

"I am so glad you are finally here; the anticipation was killing me," the Ravenclaw prefect said as she embraced both of her friends, "I have exciting news!"

"What is it?" asked Varya as they started walking towards the basement side by side.

"Malfoy talked to me! Well, briefly— he only asked for my help in the Divination class, but that is a big step, right? He does not talk to muggle-borns usually."

Varya had to agree with her on that one— Abraxas did not even look in their direction most days. Even so, her heart hurt for her friend, and she understood how painful it was to fall for someone who did not want much to do with you.

It hurt, deeply, that Riddle had been avoiding and discarding her so much lately. She knew that their relationship— if she could even call it that— was utterly messed up, so toxic and depraved, and part of her knew she had gotten attached to him too fast. And yet, whenever he looked at her, she could not deny the longing that she felt.

They reached the hallway of the kitchen, and Varya looked around in confusion for the door that she had used on Halloween, and yet in its stead was a painting of a bowl of fruits. It was not until Felix leaned in and tickled the pear that it swung open, revealing the bustling kitchen.

They shuffled inside, and the House-Elves looked at the Ravenclaws in joy as they started greeting them eagerly. Most of them were wary of Varya, as she was not only a stranger, but also wore green and silver pridefully.

"Miss is back!" came a squeaky voice, and the Eastern witch beamed at Rocky, who was still wearing his ripped clothes. The Elf wiped his dirty hands on his apron, then bowed before the Petrov witch. "So exciting!"

"Hello, Rocky, it is good to see you again," she bowed down on her knees to meet his eyes, and the Elf gasped at the fact that she remembered her name.

"Rocky does not get many visitors. No, no," he said sadly, ears flattening against his head, "Students usually only visit Lucy, students like Lucy."

"Well, I quite like you," the girl's answer brought tears of joy to Rocky's eyes, and he jumped around in excitement before dragging her to where the rest of her friends were, already feasting on candies.

It was terrific, really, how eager the House-Elves were to see them and receive the tiniest fraction of affection, and the group of friends shared a rueful smile as more of them gathered around, competing for the slightest hint of attention.

They sat on the ground with them, discussing the newest Hogwarts gossip with eager hushes, and that is how Varya found out that Renold Rosier had been sneaking in and out of the Hufflepuff Common Room in secrecy, and she wondered what — or who — the boy was hiding from his group of friends.

About an hour later, the Eastern witch felt a tug at her sleeve, and she turned to face Rocky, who placed a finger against his lips, then asked her to follow him in secrecy. Varya inclined her head to her friends, telling them that she was calling in the early night, and they both gave her a pleasant smile, chocolate staining their teeth before they went back to giggling together.

Varya hurried out of the kitchen and into the dark hallway of the basement, then paced towards where the Elf was, encouraging her to follow him. She ran up the moving stairs, and when the Elf took a turn on the seventh floor in the West Tower, her eyes narrowed.

They soon reached the owlery, and Rocky clapped excitedly, "I will show Miss a secret, yes, I will!"

Then, he hurried to one of the owl houses, shooing the bird that stood inside, and he reached for something within. Varya got on her knees to take a better look, and frowned once she saw a similar knocker to the one in the Ravenclaw room on the end wall. As she raised her head, she noticed the symbol of a mighty eagle over the birdhouse.

"Rocky, what is—"

As soon as she let those words fall from her lips, the walls began to move, and as the openings in the walls started to allow the formation of a wooden door, the owls started flying to the sky in surprise, making a bit of a commotion.

Varya gasped as the door stood before her, and a mighty eagle was carved into the wood. She approached it carefully, and read the words on the door, "It will only open for the worthy."

With curiosity and pride in her heart, the girl grabbed the handle, then opened the door, expecting it to lead to a fifty-meter fall, and yet her eyes enlarged as she stared at the beautiful study room.

It had to have thousands of books, more than she had never seen, with a grand circular table in the middle, and each wall was covered in elegant azure tapestry. There was a small fireplace in the corner, and a few divans were scattered across the edges, similar to those in the Ravenclaw Common Room. As soon as Varya stepped inside, though, she felt her mind sharpen, her concentration unlike it had been before, and all traces of fatigue left her body. In the center of the opposite wall of the door stood the portrait of a beautiful woman, and Varya immediately recognized the sophisticated features of Rowena Ravenclaw.

"What is this, Rocky?" she breathed, still enamored by her surroundings.

"An ancient room, Miss. Rocky's grandmother used to serve in the castle, and then his mother, and now him. Rocky knows the castle well."

The witch stepped closer to the circular table, and traced her hand over the cherry wood; then, she noticed something written on a plaque near the end. She moved closer to it, and squinted her eyes to read it thoroughly.

"The Salon of Rowena Ravenclaw"


	38. chapter thirty-six

ICARUS’ LIPS trailed the nape of her neck, pressing sinful kisses where her hair raised, and she trembled under soft fingers that played with the hem of her sweater, embracing her lustfully from behind as he pressed her against the circular table in Rowena Ravenclaw's study.

Varya turned around to face him, cheeks coated in carmine and lips plum and melon-pink, and she ran a hand through silky curls as she drew the boy closer to her body, hopping on the table and entangling her legs with his.

His lips were rough against hers, and he grasped at her waist with a want he had never felt before, tentatively sneaking a wandering hand on her pale stomach as he pushed her to lay on her back, and he dragged her from her feet until he could lean over her. Icarus held himself up with one arm, and continued to bite at her neck as the girl threw her head back at the new sensation.

" _God,_ " he murmured against her skin, and then he looked at her; robe was thrown on one of the chairs, midnight hair ruffled from the constant tugging and pulling, and he let his hand trail the inside of her thigh. He pulled at her knee-length black sock, exposing her legs to the cold air, and pressed a slow kiss on her skin, before peering up at her. There was nothing godly about their next kiss, and he gripped at her neck as he guided her mouth to his.

Varya's mind was engulfed by a burning she had never experienced before, and she wondered how their conversation about an Astrology essay had even ended up in this game of temptation and roaming hands. Perhaps, it was the atmosphere of Valentine's day, or the way he had looked so entrancing as he bit his lips in concentration over another paragraph in their textbook, but she had found herself straddling his hips in a moment of uncharacteristic weakness.

She did not know what she was doing, it was her first time experiencing such sensations, but it felt so blissful that at the moment, it did not matter that the witch did not love him; the only thing she cared about was how his raspy voice breathed her name as if it was the most sacred harmony on Earth. Lestrange kissed like a rapacious demon, and his hands trailed every inch of her over a rumpled uniform, but it was when he grasped her thigh so forcefully her pale skin dripped with purple that she allowed her lips to part in a small wail.

Someone cleared their throat from behind them, and the couple scrambled apart, pulling at their clothes in hurry and embarrassment. Maxwell Nott looked at them with the most amused face he had ever had, and then he strode over to a chair nonchalantly, throwing his bag on it and pulling out a leathered book.

"Here," breathed Icarus as he passed the girl his robe to cover her bare legs quickly, and Varya jumped off of the table and hurried to pull her sweater back down. Her face was now flushed for a different reason, and she avoided Nott's smirk relentlessly.

"I have heard that Valentine's Day has this kind of effect on couples, but I have to say, I did not expect to walk in on such a scene," he teased, eyes trained on Icarus, and Varya appreciated the way he respectfully avoided her disheveled figure as she composed herself.

"You better keep your trap shut, as usual, Nott. Do not start blabbering nonsense out of nowhere," threatened Varya, and she pulled her hair in a high ponytail, knowing that it was the most efficient way to cover up the tangles. She did not want anyone noticing her messy hair. Her breath had returned to normal, and her mind began to clear up as the realization of what had almost happened dawned on her.

Maxwell snickered, then pretended to zip his lips in secrecy before turning back to his work, ultimately letting the events flutter away from his mind. Varya was still rilled up and humiliated, but Icarus grabbed her hand and pulled her to sit down on a divan with him, then pressed a soft kiss to her forehead that helped her calm down.

She regretted having shown the study room to the other Slytherins, even more so when they had started using it for their regular meetings, and had pretty much taken over the area. Nevertheless, good things came out of it too, and she had noticed another shift in their behavior towards her. They were less secretive, less manipulative, and although there was still the usual wickedness to their behavior, it was not targeted at Varya.

The door swung open again, and Tom Riddle and Abraxas Malfoy walked in leisurely, chatting about something in hushed voices. Then, the leader turned to face Varya, who immediately tried to raise her head from Icarus' shoulder, only for her boyfriend to push it back. Tom hoisted a jaded eyebrow at the two, then continued his dialogue with Malfoy.

"What are your plans for tonight?" asked Icarus, as he ran a soft hand through her hair, untying it and letting it fall loose. Varya sighed and leaned in his figure more, closing her eyes as the boy stroked her hair.

"I am at rehearsals until eight or so, and then Kettleburn has us stay an extra hour to clean up the set," she mumbled, feeling the tiredness in her body. She had been overworking herself between her classes, her meetings with Dumbledore, rehearsals, and everything else in her life.

Sometimes, all Varya wanted to do was sleep.

"Well, it is Valentine's Day..." Icarus began shyly, and he halted his speech for a second, considering his words. He had never asked the girl out on a date before, despite the fact that they had attended events together. After building up the courage, he turned to look at her, but Varya was fast asleep. "Oh."

He grabbed her head and gently placed it on the divan, then took off his robe and put it over her body. It could get quite cold in the owlery, even if the month of February had brought a warmer climate.

Icarus sighed and straightened up, then went to sit by Nott as the boys gathered at the table.

"Everything is set for the trip to Albania, I assume?" asked Tom, eyes on Lestrange, "Or else I hope you did not prioritize your love life over our cause."

"Yes, my Lord," breathed Icarus. Tom had grown more relentless about addressing him with his proper title between closed doors, and although they still managed to slip a "Riddle" here and there, there was no denying that the boy's ascension to power had begun. "I have the coordinates of the forest, and I have purchased the meaning of transportation— the Floo Network to Paris, and then muggle trains only. Nobody will be able to track you."

"Good," nodded Tom, then he turned towards Rowena Ravenclaw's portrait, "What a peculiar thing, that the witch discovered Ravenclaw's hidden Chamber before us. I cannot help but wonder who helped her, or how she stumbled on it."

"But, my Lord," began Abraxas, "Do you truly believe that every founder had their own chamber?"

Tom smirked, then passed a brief glance to his followers. Educated minds, trained fighters, and yet sometimes they failed to see what was right before them. And that was another reason why they needed his guidance to see the truth.

"How could I not when I have been presented all the necessary evidence? We are now standing in Rowena's own study room, the one she used to send letters to her dearest daughter after she departed. Legends, they say, but after Rosier managed to ask for a few hints at the ball, I went to Helena myself," he begun, and arched over the table with his hands gripping at the edges, "Tragic story, she wanted her mother's wisdom, so she stole the diadem and ran to Albania. Rowena sent someone after her, the man Helena loved, and when she refused to come back, he killed her in cold blood. And then himself."

He stood by the portrait, looking at the beautiful woman that radiated knowledge and power— and yet she had been weakened by the love for her daughter.

"What about the rest?"

Tom looked at Icarus like he had just asked the dumbest question, "Nott, explain further."

Maxwell closed his textbook excitedly, glad to be given the opportunity to showcase his knowledge and usefulness. He was not the best at dueling, and was rarely sent on potentially dangerous missions, but he was the brightest acolyte, and Tom Riddle valued that.

"There have always been rumors that the Room of Requirement was Hufflepuff's creation— a room that serves those in need and provides aid in times of crisis. It has also been documented in some of the earliest scriptures of Hogwarts, although without a name, and nobody ever knew how it had appeared. It is safe to assume it had always been there," he blabbered, eyes open in concentration, "Then, the Headmaster's Office belonged to Gryffindor, and it is easy to figure out. After all, many believed that he was the first Headmaster of Hogwarts, and the Sorting Hat is his creation. As for Salazar..."

"Quiet," thundered Tom, suddenly, eyes darting to Varya's sleeping figure, who had their back turned to them. They all held their breaths— they had forgotten she was there, and yet the pattern of her breathing indicated that she was fast asleep. Even so, they could not risk it.

Tom knew that she had read about the Chamber of Secrets, the only legend of a founder hidden room that appeared in books, and the last thing they needed is for her to connect the dots. No, that would undoubtedly cause a lot of trouble.

"Scatter away," he ordered, knowing that classes were about to start soon. Maxwell packed up his books quickly, not wanting to be late for Divination, and Malfoy followed closely behind. It was Icarus that lingered for a second, unsure of whether he should wake up the girl or not. She did not have class, as she was not taking Divination, and he could let her rest after so many days of hard work. Eyes flickered to Tom Riddle's figure, who was jotting down notes in his diary, face trained on the way his quill scratched against the paper. Icarus had a certain doubt overtake him, something that told him not to leave the two alone again, and yet he wanted to trust Varya. He left the room in silence.

There was a clock on the wall that Varya was facing, and she had grown tired of staring at it as she stood still and listened to the conversation. Her years at Scholomance had taught her how to pretend to be in deep slumber, and it had never come in as handy as today. There was a daunting smirk on her face, a mixture of intrigue and delight. Oh, little schemers— _they were at it again._

She wanted to knock at her head for not connecting the dots earlier— of course, the Heir of Slytherin would look for the Chamber of Secrets, and he would try to follow Salazar's footsteps. Her mind flew back to the passage she had read all those months ago, and goddamn it, she had been so oblivious to it all. There it was, the truth of Riddle's business; at last, he had opened the Chamber to clean the school.

Muggle-borns.

Arthur had been the first victim, the boy who had been petrified last semester, and his body was still in the Hospital Wing, waiting for the mandrake draught to be finished at last. It was coming to a close; the Matron was approaching the cure at a fast rate, which would surely make Riddle act rashly.

The clock chimed loudly as its tongue struck the precise hour, and Varya's breath fastened as she stood there, half-frozen, unsure what to do. Should she try to stop Riddle? However, she did not even know how he had petrified the boy, and it would be reckless to simply have a go at the Slytherin prefect without a plan. Varya had acted on a whim before, and it never seemed to work out.

She got up slowly, pretending to be groggy, and hoped that the boy would not notice the alertness in her. Tom's eyes shot to her as she yawned, and he frowned as he regarded her.

"Your socks are improper."

A blush coated her face, and she hurried to pull them back up her thighs, then winced as she saw the slight bruise on her inner thigh. Goddamn it, Icarus.

"I hit myself," she mumbled, unsure as to why she was trying to deny that she had been touched by her boyfriend.

"Right."

They fell in silence, but Tom was still looking at her with an expression of uncertainty, almost as if he suspected she had heard everything, but the boy was too arrogant to admit he could ever make a mistake and had a tendency to underestimate the witch. There was a certain trepidation in the air, an unspoken awareness of each other's secrets. Riddle knew more than he let on about her situation, she was sure of it, and the only way she could get him to open up was to scheme right back.

Tom Riddle moved quickly, like a slithering serpent, and in no time, he was by her side, curious eyes trained on her face as he held his chin high, "You have been meeting with Dumbledore."

She blinked at him.

"Yes. What is it to you?"

"My dear, I thought we had begun trusting each other more," he smirked, then continued, "I was only wondering why the late nights?"

"Riddle, one day you will stop believing me to be a fool, and it will save us both time on awful conversations such as this," she scoffed, then sat up and headed away from him, too aware of his proximity and how it spun her brain, "Stop meddling in my affairs, lest I end up returning the favor."

"I welcome you to try."

"Do you?" she said cockily, then her fingers padded the shelves of books, looking for something that would catch her eye, "Last I remember, you tortured Rosier for telling me about the Slug Club, and it was not the most pleasant thing. Snakes were involved, and all."

"A slip."

"So, you admit it?"

Tom growled, realizing she had caught him in a mistake, and his mind had completely forgotten the incident or the excuse they had made up. Very well, it made no difference to him; she had already believed her own truth regardless of what they said.

"Serpents," she breathed, then her head turned towards the boy, "fascinating creatures, are they not? One wonders, though, how come they knew to attack the boy? But then, I remembered this enthralling conversation that we had had in the first semester when you got mad at me for possibly being a— what was it again? Oh, Parselmouth."

_Merlin, Varya, what happened to not acting on a whim?_

Tom narrowed his eyes in a fury, "I would think about my next words very carefully, Petrov."

"You are the heir."

How wonderful it would have been to hear her wails as he drove a knife through her chest repeatedly, or see her whimper on the ground underneath his torture curse. Something told him that her face would be beautiful as it radiated excruciating pain, as her whole body succumbed to despair and torment. Furthermore, the fact that it would be him that would have caused it only intrigued him more.

He should have killed her right there, and perhaps if he had, things would have turned out differently for him in the end, but he did not, and because of that, Varya Petrov only fell deeper in the endless pit that was Tom Riddle's future.

His silence only confirmed something she already knew, but it also surprised her when his face remained impassive, almost as if he did not care that she had figured out his ancestry. In some way, it probably had pleased the boy to have someone else acknowledge him for what he was, but it also underlined a different thing— he trusted that she would not tell anyone else his secret.

There was something else as well, though. Tom Riddle had long outgrown his need to terrorize mudbloods, and while the basilisk was still a weapon he hid for the right time, he had set his mind on another conquest, something far more critical in his aim for power.

"Thank you for letting me know," he said dryly, and the girl huffed through her nose in annoyance at his sarcasm.

An infuriating witch, with a flair for the subtle pleasure of macabre, and his eyes flashed with something akin to resentment as he looked at her across the room. She stood by Rowena's portrait, and her posture resembled her in some foreign way, but the girl was as Slytherin as the serpents in the desert, so much so that shadows wailed in her presence. And there was more to her than met the eye, the catastrophe behind a vanilla face and petite body.

Tom loathed her more than anything else in the world, and yet he could imagine her by his side once he took over. It was the sort of fascination one had with death, and he understood that better than anyone else— something he wanted to graciously avoid, and yet surround himself with it.

But she loved him in a deeper way, and she loved death too, in the opposite way that he did— Varya had grown tired of seeing it around her, but she welcomed the day it would strike cold fingers against her soul. Nevertheless, she pushed it away day by day, unsure if it was the right time or the right place.

"How did you petrify the boy?"

"Why are you chatting with Dumbledore?"

Secrets were not the best thing to have out in the open, even more so when the two were aware of their existence, and yet could not seem to figure them out. He strode over to her with elegant steps, dark shoes against the marble floor, and he reached out to grab her arm and drag the girl to face him.

"I am not playing, Petrov. My patience is growing thin with you," the sociopath said, and his tone was so calm it neared danger. Perhaps it was true, and Varya was only postponing her inevitable demise at his hands, and yet she was brave at heart and refused to fall in front of his threats.

"We both have our own niche; best not mess with each other unless you are willing to share the space," she answered, and did not even try to pull away from his grasp, only stepped closer with each word until he towered over her, and his nose almost touched her forehead. She placed a hand on his shoulder, and the boy recoiled. "What, Riddle? Scared of a woman's touch?"

Tom flared his nostrils, then stepped back and away from her, repulsed at what she implied because the boy had never truly thought about that— being touched. At least not in the way her words whispered, and he stopped his mind from wandering at the idea.

The girl frowned at his reaction, unsure why he looked as if she had just insulted his mother — not that he would much care about that — as she had not meant to provoke any profound thoughts. It had been a fleeting comment, and yet it had scorched the boy's ego.

Let her deprave herself if she wanted to, let Icarus cover her delicate skin in bruises and bites if that is what she desired, but Tom was far above the temptation of the body. A strong mind like his only ever lusted for what truly mattered — power. Nevertheless, the seed of the idea had been planted in his subconsciousness.

***

"Realistically speaking, there is no way for them to get together," said Felix over a cup of hot tea, the aroma of apple infused water floating through the room, and he chatted like an old eastern woman outside her front yard, gossiping with her neighbors about whatever she had just heard. "I mean, come on! Malfoy is one of the biggest prejudiced pricks in this school, your sweetheart following closely behind— no offense there."

Varya turned her head to where Abraxas was sitting in the third row of the theatre, reading a newly printed paper of the Daily Prophet, and yet his eyes continued to flicker with repulsion to where Della was trying to paint a set-piece manually. She had refused to use magic, saying that her mum had made her take drawing lessons when she was younger, and yet the green spring trees had turned murky.

Felix was not wrong— Malfoy was indeed an elitist, and he had grown up surrounded by people that had made him feed into the mentality that he was superior because of his blood, and yet as she had gotten to know the boy better, she understood that despite being wicked and prideful, he was a quiet and reserved boy.

He spoke less than the rest, and he only ever stepped up when Tom needed him to. Varya had a feeling that the boy was trying to find his footing in the world. Everyone had their own trade that they had mastered— Elladora was a poisoner, Icarus battled like no other, Rosier schmoozed people into submission, Nott had intelligence beyond comprehension, and Avery was a sadistic butcher. However, amongst all, Malfoy never really had anything except his pride.

In a way, it was funny how the seven of them seemed to be fragments of Tom Riddle, almost as if the boy had torn his soul into seven pieces and handed one to each Knight. He was the accumulation of all of their vices, a collector of traits, and a masterer of talents.

Varya supposed that if one were ever to bring Riddle to the right path, they would have to start picking at those things, taking out the Knights one by one, and condemning their sins with virtues. She had already sensed a change in Icarus, who had started straying away from the path Riddle had gotten him on, and the girl only hoped that he would continue like that.

Perhaps, the best way to redeem an immoral man like Abraxas was to show him that there were things that mattered more than blood purity, and the girl owed it to her friend as well. So Varya hopped off of the stage and made her way to Malfoy, who was still looking at Della's painting with disgust.

"Not a fan of art?" quipped the girl as she sat down next to him, legs set on the chair in front of her as her dusty shoes dirtied the velvety material.

Abraxas scoffed, then folded his newspaper and put it underneath his armpit, "Quite the contrary. I self-taught myself the concepts of drawing, and what that mud— what your friend is doing is horrendous."

Varya raised an eyebrow at how he bit back the offensive words, and she knew he most probably feared that she would knife him again, "So go and correct her mistakes; I am sure she would appreciate your guidance."

She was trying to pick at his pride, at his need to show off his superior skills and how his status had brought him better lessons and knowledge than Della's, and Malfoy fell for it almost immediately, a smug look on his face as he got up.

"I suppose so."

God, he was oblivious, and the Eastern witch smirked as she watched him near her friend. As soon as Della noticed him, she dropped her paint all over the floor and cussed as she scrambled to clean the mess with a few spells. Varya was too far to hear, but she could tell by her reddened cheeks that she was a spluttering mess.

The witch threw Felix a playful wink, and the boy only shook his head in amusement as he bit down on a tasteful scone. His Ravenclaw uniform was neatly pressed, and he had combed his taffy hair back to reveal a beautiful face. He had his Quidditch broom in a corner, just barely out of reach, and Varya knew that the minute they were released, he would be heading to the pitch for more practice. He was just as obsessed with the sport as Ivy.

Speaking of the witch, she appeared out from behind the curtain and called out to Varya to come and help her with her attire. So the Slavic girl ran up to her, and entered the backstage just as Ivy threw a garment to the ground in frustration.

"What is it?" asked Varya, frowning as the Trouche heir paced the room in a fury.

"I will tell you what is," breathed the girl, and Varya could almost see the flares come out of her nostrils as she picked up a letter from the table on the opposite said and passed it to her roommate, "Read it."

Varya gave her a quizzical stare before opening the envelope slowly, and pulling out a small piece of paper that was addressed to nobody in particular.

_Meet me by the Astrology Tower tonight; I have something I have wanted to show you for a while now. I will be waiting._

_A.B._

"Wait, is that not—"

"Alphard? Yes, it fucking is. And guess on whose table I found this! On Elladora's, that stupid witch, I knew she was cruel, but I did not believe she would go to such lengths." Ivy growled as she threw a vase at a wall, letting it smash with burning rage.

"Perhaps it is only a misunderstanding," tried Varya, as she had never seen the Selwyn girl approach Ivy's past lover, and it made no sense that they had started seeing each other.

"I doubt it. She has always been so envious of everything I have, and this is just her way of getting back at me."

"What are you going to do, then?" asked Varya, unsure of what to say to her friend.

Ivy stayed silent for a second and was about to answer when a knock sounded at the door.

"May I come in?" asked Icarus as he peeked his head through, and almost as if he was not aware of the growing tension in the room, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. His hand was behind his back, and yet the bouquet's tail was visible.

Ivy and Varya shared a look, and the Quidditch Chaser stomped out of the room, slamming the door with temper and leaving the other two Slytherins in each other's presence. Lestrange sighed, and mentally prepared himself as he approached the Slavic girl.

Varya felt her heart speed up with dread, aware that the boy was trying to make yet another romantic gesture that she would not be able to reciprocate. Sometimes, she wished all he could do was kiss her and distract her, but when feelings were involved, things tended to get complicated.

"I brought you this," Icarus' honey eyes twinkled with satisfaction as he extended her the bouquet of black roses. He had charmed them himself, knowing that the girl's dark heart would prefer a flower that looked dead before it withered and its petals scattered on her bedroom floor. His lips were pulled in the faintest smile, something so serene that it was surreal, and he looked more at peace than he had ever been.

Varya took them, reluctantly, but her heart still drummed at the affectionate gesture, as nobody had ever done something like this for her, "Thank you."

They did not know what to say as they stood opposite each other, Varya twirling the blooming flowers in her hand and ignoring the way their thrones scratcher at her palms, and Icarus trying to catch her eyes.

"I love you."

Varya dropped the flowers to the ground, panicked eyes flashing to the boy's as her mouth opened slightly in shock. Their dark petals scattered on the floor, and the girl felt herself grow dizzy.

"No, you do not," she whispered, still unable to comprehend what was going on. Her chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself, and her eyes were watering fastly as Icarus gripped her face, "You do not love me, Icarus. You barely know me."

"Varya, I-"

The girl broke away from him, hand flying to her chest as she struggled to breathe, gripping at every piece of furniture that she could find. Lestrange could not possibly love her; nobody could. Nobody knew her, and if they did, they would only stay away from her.

Icarus hurried after her, then helped her sit on Elladora's desk as she composed herself, gently massaging her shoulders as he tried to instruct her how to breathe. Varya was panicking, and her vision was foggy with tears, and the need to prove to herself that he did not love her.

She grabbed his face and smashed his lips against hers, tangling her hands in his hair with so much need for stability she might as well have gone completely mad. Varya was shattering before the boy, and she needed to feel his touch, to convince herself that all there was between them was the voluptuous desire of teenage years.

Icarus tasted of peppermint and the faintest trace of mischief, and he grabbed at her figure with restless hands, trailing the curve of her waist up and down. His ravenous kisses on her collarbone left her light-headed, and he grabbed her leg and twisted it around his waist, pulling her close until their hips matched.

Varya pressed herself against the boy, and her thighs contracted at the heat that radiated off of Icarus, the smallest whimper leaving her mouth and buzzing against his lips like the delicate note of plucking a violin string. Her blood pumped faster, and her lips turned lava as she pressed burning kisses to the boy's neck, exactly where his veins pulsed against reddening skin, and he threw his head back with a tasteful groan. Her nails dragged at skin enough to leave marks, and she undulated her body to meet his better.

His eyes were closed in an obscene grunt, and lips were pressed so tight in an effort to bite back the dulcet sounds of pleasure that his jaw clenched, "My God, you are so—"

Breathtaking, surreal, majestic. There were no words to describe how much he wanted the girl, and so he showed her by placing a needy hand on her back and pulling her so close he could almost feel her through the uniform. Varya arched her body, then with trembling hands, she took off his robe and threw it over Elladora's chair, and then proceeded to take off his sweater too. His dress shirt was still on, but she drove a hand underneath it, feeling a strong stomach and smooth skin. He drove her skirt up with a light hand, and rested then on her exposed hip, gripping it with desire.

The boy grabbed her hair tighter, and pulled at her roots until her throat was exposed, where he trailed feathery lips in a teasing manner, then pressed his face in the crook of her neck and bit at it harshly.

"Icarus," she whined.

"I know."

With a roll of hips, she was a spluttering mess and her neck bent backward, and hand went over her mouth to cover the sound that threatened to spill and ricochet in the backstage room. Her cotton skirt rode upward, revealing milky skin that he had already marked once and would do so again. That goddamned hand on her thigh, squeezing painfully as his thumb dug on the inside, and he maneuvered her better, pressing her on the make-up mirror while his other hand supported them.

He left frantic fingerprints on the mirror as she wholly attached to him, not leaving any space between their bodies, and their panting fogged it as they moved against each other to the rhythm of their synced pulses.


	39. chapter thirty-seven

THE CROWS HAD started nibbling at the corpse's flesh, and one poked at its eye relentlessly until it fell out of its socket and dangled by the hold of the optical nerve. The head itself was barely strung by a few tendons, almost completely cut off from the neck up, and the blood had dried to a dusky color. There was a putrid odor in the air, and the students that gathered around the chapel to stare at the cross that the body had been impaled on.

It stood on top of the chapel like a scarecrow in the fields, almost as if it were supposed to keep something away or to send out a warning to whatever roamed around Scholomance. The garments on the body had been ripped by the birds, or maybe something else, and shredded skin peeked through the material's holes.

It was a summer day, and in the Carpathian mountains, that meant that there was barely any wind, and yet the reek of mortality seemed to envelop Scholomance as the body of Ivan Oleh stood against the harsh solstice sun.

There was nothing but taciturnity amongst the crowd, a few sobs, and yet the children had grown so accustomed to death that it no longer seemed to bother them as it once had. After all, they had been taught that death was as feeble as life.

"Nothing to see here," came the call of the Dark Priest as he pushed through the students, a few seventh-years trailing behind him and trying to scatter away the younger apprentices, "Just another monster attack, this is why you should never wander outside in the dark. As long as you are inside those walls, you are safe. However, I cannot speak for whatever might tempt you to step outside."

The words fell on the ears of the innocent children, and many of them wept at the sight of their fellow classmate so brutally massacred. It had not been that long since they had lost Ecaterina, and none of them were ready for another funeral. Her body had barely been buried, and the tomb still had green flowers placed on it daily. Not many plants grew around Scholomance, and some wondered how they could cover two graves.

Varya stood behind the crowd, and as she looked at the boy with a crease on her forehead, there was a pound at her skull. Something was picking at her mind, a dull throb in her temples as she tried to remember where she had seen him before. They had never spoken during their classes, and yet why did she remember his voice so clearly?

_"I am going to try and escape."_

Escape from what? The girl shook her head and swatted the words away. She had been listening to the radio too much lately, so much so that her dreams had started transfiguring into nightmares. The Second World War had barely begun at that point, and the horrors that were broadcasted on every station had been giving her terrible night terrors.

Most nights, she woke up weeping and trashing in her bunk beds, and her sheets had been soaked in perspiration. The girls that she was sharing the room with had started giving her odd looks, and soon enough, nobody wanted to associate themselves with _Loony Varya_.

"Go inside, child."

Varya gasped as she turned to face the Dark Priest, and the sense of fear that filled her was apocalyptic. Something about the man had always terrified her, the way his aged face carried so much monstrosity, and his voice was always grotesque. It was as if looking at a walking cadaver; death permanently etched on his face.

He was not the nicest person. He had a reputation of beating the children whenever they disobeyed — or whenever he just needed something to release his anger against — and was a vile human, so much so that even some of the school's maidens kept their distance.

Varya had had her fair share of beatings and had learned on her own skin never to upset the Dark Priest.

"Yes, sir."

She went back inside, knowing that she would not see the gardens for the rest of the month. They rarely let them go outside, and today had been an exception. They had said it was because of the solstice, a celebrated day in the coven, and that they would guard the entrances to the courtyard to make sure the apprentices could enjoy their time.

_Perhaps, it had been a warning._

The funeral came by days later, and they all gathered in the catacombs as they watched them incinerate what was left of Ivan Oleh, the beautiful boy that had left their realm too soon. Some girls beside Varya wailed with stuffy noses, and they put their faces on each other's shoulders. There was some comforting back-patting, a few tearjerking stories about the skilled sorcerer, and some of his friends even brought various objects to put by his tomb. They would bury him after the next full moon. Until then, it was not safe to walk around the school. God knows where the creature that had killed Ivan was.

_Inside._

His death left Varya's soul a little colder than the last one. It felt as if she had just lost a wonderful friend, and yet they had never had a proper conversation. Her mind and soul did not align, almost as if something was obstructing their connection.

" _L-au omorât_ ," came a voice from behind her, and Varya turned to see a superb girl with a tear trailed face looking over the symbolic coffin. She had spoken in Romanian to her, knowing that most people around them were not as fluent in the language. Her eyes flashed to the younger apprentice quickly, before settling into a look of obedience as a few teachers passed them, ready to go back to their chambers.

" _Cum adic_ _ă_?" questioned Varya, confused. Nevertheless, the girl only raised a finger to her mouth, signaling her to keep silent. Yes, the monsters had killed Ivan, that much was obvious, and yet her words had carried a deeper meaning. It was almost as if it had been a premonition.

The ceremony came to an end, and everyone was sent back to their rooms as sunset was approaching. Varya walked the corridors alone, and the shadows writhed in the corners, almost as if they were breathing. The vibration of doors closing and locks turning resonated through the desolate castle. It was nighttime now, and that meant none of the students were safe. As she passed the arched windows of the stoned entrances, she saw maidens hurrying to close the curtains. Then, everything enveloped in darkness.

***

The Ravenclaw Common Room was even more lovely during twilight, and Varya looked out of the window as the stars gave a faint shimmer in the magenta sky, almost as if quartz gemstones had been placed along the horizon. The moon was beautiful, and it had turned the faintest shade of salmon, and white clouds were swans against the vast crystal lake of Heaven— they floated serenely along the edges. The canvas of sunset had been painted in shades of the violet flower that bloomed in spring. March has nested its warmth in the hills of Scotland.

Varya felt the murmur on her delicate skin as the moonlight touched it ever so slightly, and she breathed slowly as her mind fell into a calmness that was not beckoning to her. Her hair fell in soft waves around her face, and matte obsidian eyes trailed the sky, while her mouth was pulled in a smile that never quite seemed to be sincere. Then again, it never was these days.

"It is nearing sunset," remarked Della as she coated her toenails in a magnet blue— her favorite color. Her hair had been pulled in a French braid that fell on her back tightly. She blew on her foot, almost knocking the bottle of nail polish over, "Shit."

"I should head back to the Dungeons," murmured Varya, but her heart twitched. She did not want to leave the window, too enlightened by the scenery. Few moments in her life carried such serenity, and she wanted to keep enjoying them— pretend like she was not a sixteen-year-old girl that had been thrown into a world of iniquity.

"Sleepover, then!" Della announced eagerly, "Oh, you should have told me you were staying over before I did my toenails. We could have done them together!"

Varya turned to her, legs resting beneath her form as she lounged over a divan, "I cannot stay; I have to start my Alchemy homework. Perhaps, another time."

Della pouted, then mumbled something to herself in a sweet voice, but her sadness immediately disappeared as she saw that her coat of blue had dried, and she started applying another one while humming a classical song.

Beauchamp had always been a wonderful, winsome girl. Her smile radiated kindness and solace, and she was ever-present to support all of her friends in their doings. She had grown up with loving parents, who fussed over every scar and applied ointments to the faintest wound, then kissed it before sending her off to bed with a story. Della tended always to see the good in people, and whenever a storm neared, her eyes searched the horizon for the graceful fluttering of birds. In contrast, Varya only ever listened to the rapture of thunder and lightning.

Varya got up, picked up her books, then headed out of the door after bidding her friend goodbye. Her mind was still on the memory that she had broken in Dumbledore's office the previous day.

Ivan Olef— the werewolf she had seen in the catacombs with her on the night they were taking her blood. She was frustrated at herself for not remembering anything else about the boy, and yet his death had marked her unlike any other. They had been close, she was sure of it, probably bonded over being the only people stuck in the dungeons.

She had been there for longer than him; Matron Lawrence had alluded to it, and yet she did not know for how long they had kept her down there. It seemed as if they kept bringing her in, torturing her, then sending her out into the world with her memory wiped and their conscience clear. It was awful, really, how she was a broken toy that they just enjoyed tormenting to no end.

So far, she had not come closer to understanding what they were doing, or how it benefited Grindelwald. As far as she knew, the man had always believed in magic supremacy, so it seemed very unlikely that he would subject wizards to such torture unless the benefits outweighed the price.

Hogwarts breathed of magic as she walked down the moving stairs; her body slightly lost balance as they changed direction, and she bumped into a heavy figure, having her stumble and miss a step. Her books flew out of her hands, and she tumbled down before stopping at the bottom.

Varya's head pounded, and she did not bother getting up, too tired to try against the force that had dragged her down. She turned around on her back, then gazed up at the ceiling, expecting to see the dome of Hogwarts' hallways. Instead, it was Silurian blue.

"You made quite an entrance," Tom mumbled as he gazed down at her, eyes so monotone he looked like he had hopped out of Da Vinci's canvas. His prefect badge glistened, and the girl knew that he had been patrolling. Yet, he had been carrying books just like her, and now they were scattered along the corridor and down several floors.

The witch groaned as she slowly leaped up to her feet, dusting her awful skirt, and the inside corners of her eyebrows hoisted up at the boy, "That was exactly what I was aiming for."

"Better head back soon, would not want you wandering around the corridors tonight."

He stood before her, so imperially handsome, it almost pained her heart, and with a flick of his hand, he returned her books that had fallen over the balustrade. Varya grabbed them as they hung in the air, and nodded as a gesture of gratitude, then made her way toward the dungeons. Her mind was too foggy to care, too exhausted to have a notion of what was going on around her, and she muttered the password to the Slytherin Common Room with a groggy voice.

Her body hit the softness of the couch in the main sitting area with enough force to make it scrape against the stone floor, and she let out a whimper as she thought about the homework that she was supposed to finish by tomorrow morning. With a wandering hand, she reached out to the table and tried to grab at her Alchemy textbook, and when she felt the smooth texture of leather, her eyebrows hoisted.

Varya's head snapped to the book she was touching, and her whole body hauled up as she realized it had been another volume that she had taken from the air— _Secrets of the Darkest Art._

Pages of darkness immediately fluttered between her hands, and eyes scanned Tom's scribbles with so much curiosity that every ounce of fatigue had drained from her body. Then, she stopped on a chapter that had been severely underlined, to the point where it was hard to distinguish the rows of text from each other, and yet one word stood proudly against the white paper.

_Horcruxes._

"It is best you return that to me immediately, Petrov."

The wand almost poked her eye out as she raised her head to look at Tom, who had his characteristic fury that only appeared when something did not go according to his plans. Riddle rarely made mistakes, and he despised nothing more than having something go wrong in his scheming.

Varya blinked at him lethargically. God, how tired she was of him threatening her life. His eyes had gone periwinkle blue, and she tried to fathom the catastrophic ocean that sent waves of Ares' wrath down on her and yet found nothing of them but the void of an apathetic man.

Her lips turned in a wry sneer, and her face shadowed a frozen look of boredom as she twirled the book in her hands, moving it from one to another in a charade that ought to raise his blood, "This?"

Had it not been for the coy twinkle in her eyes, one might have fallen for her sham innocence and merely assumed her behavior was nothing but pristine, and that she had not let midnight eyes train on the pages of detailed killing and plotting.

At last, inside the mind of the lunatic boy that was Tom Riddle.

It was oddly amusing how his thoughts contrasted his appearance, and while he carried himself with such exquisite aristocracy — the mannerism of a court-grown boy who had never once ridden a horse without a saddle — his mind twisted in such wicked ways that it might have made the devil himself gasp. Alas, that was Tom Riddle.

"Petrov, now is not the best time to test my patience."

"Is it ever, really?" she lamented and stood up, pushing away his wand with so much nonchalance she was surprised herself that he did not hex her into oblivion. There was so much defiance in her attitude; it drove him to the brink of imploding.

The fireplace was lit with flames that blurred together in an orange cascade of heat and anguish, and the volume almost scorched Varya's hands as she continued playing with the cover. She had read the words in it, and had seen the questions they had imprinted on the boy's mind. Murder? He had already done that, as his father's name was written underneath one of the pictures and circled, and it should have made the girl queasy. Instead, it triggered something else— some kind of morbid fascination that always seemed to flutter in her heart when she looked at Tom Riddle.

Tom found himself rooted to his spot, debating if he should bash her head against the stone fireplace or not. It would have woken up enough people that he would not be able to Obliviate them all, and yet there was always that temptation to murder the devious witch out of pure loathing and fury. Nevertheless, even he could not waste a mind as bright as hers for nothing. It would have been a shame.

"I thought my story of Koschei would scare you away from things like this, Riddle, not encourage you to pursue aimlessly." She turned to face him but did not move from her spot, "Nobody can defy death. Not even you."

"You looked into the book; you know very well there is a way," he growled and approached her furiously, hand still extended as an invitation for her to give his lecture back. Tom had scribbled essential notes in there, and it was best that he analyzed every piece of information.

Varya peered at the volume with distaste, and before the boy could react, she flicked it into the flames. Tom grabbed her and pushed her up against the fireplace, extinguishing the flames with a small wave of his wand, and his face was contorted in a mask of ballistic wrath as he gripped so tightly at her throat he could feel the rough skin from where she had slit her own neck.

The girl pushed right back, punching at his frame while trying to move his hand away from her trachea, "What is so appealing about a life of immortality?"

"Are you that dense? Time is the only thing of essence in this world— we are bound to our mortality, which is our greatest weakness. Defying that only allows for eternal growth and power, the kind of wickedness few dare achieve," his voice carried the nerve of a man who believed to be a master of all trades, and yet his words made Varya scoff.

"A life of loneliness and despair, maybe. You will watch everyone around you die, you will be there when Hell comes back to Earth, and you will eventually go mad. You have nobody, and that will eat up even a mind like yours, Tom."

"Do not use my fucking name," he snarled and released his hold, trying to compose himself before he actually hurt her.

"Tom? Riddle? Tom Riddle?" she taunted, and she played with fire as it skimmed right on the edges of her soul, knowing damn well that when the volcano erupted, it would shatter her to bits. Or she would shatter him.

"You think this is amusing, Petrov? You think you are so invincible but are you really? Last I checked, you were one step away from slitting your own throat in my lap just because you wanted reassurance that _I needed you_ ," he purred at her, hand flying out to tuck her hair behind her ear. Then, he leaned in, and touched her ear with his lips, "But know this— _I will never need you_. I will always loathe you to the point of self-destruction."

Varya stilled, and she wondered if he could hear the way her heart beat as they stood so close to one another. God, she wanted to kiss him and punch him at the same time for the rubbish he was muttering.

His intricate fragrance of mahogany and the faintest trace of aftershave was intoxicating to the point of delirium, and his body was almost pressed against her in a way that made her skin burn with wildfire. Tom's curls had grown longer, and now the smallest strand tickled her face as he moved both hands above her head.

She was utterly fascinated with the way it all seemed so natural, a combination of limbs and breathing, and their proximity no longer scared her. It felt welcomed, it felt right, and Varya found herself confused as to why their souls mixed together in such a catastrophic storm, and even though her love for him rattled her to the bones, it also calmed her mind unlike anything else.

Riddle was perplexed himself, and his lips burned where they touched her earlobe. It was her sweet scent yet again that made his head buzz with something else, and his chest fired up as he thought about her words— that he would end up alone. Was she implying that she would not be there?

That angered him in some way, and the wizard could not decipher the way his head swirled at the thought of that. His gut twisted, and he did not like the way she was avoiding his stare. Her porcelain features were turned away from him, and her stagnant eyes were glancing around the room in an effort to distract herself from the boy.

Her neck was slightly bent away from him, face turned in a frustrating flush as her nails dug in her own palms to keep herself from touching him. She did not want to succumb to the absolute electricity between them, despite the way her head pounded with the kind of intoxicating feeling that alcohol might have induced.

But he did.

Tom lowered his head until his mouth was near her jaw, and then, in a moment of weakness, he let his lips trace the outline of her neck. Her skin was soft under them, and he closed his eyes before pressing a phantom kiss against her jawline, his chest crushing against hers in primal desire.

Varya breathed harsher, biting down the small whimper that made its way up her throat, and she trembled at his proximity. He had barely done anything, and yet it electrified her body more than Icarus had managed to in that backstage room. He retracted his head and looked at her with the darkest eyes she had ever seen, a storm of uncertainty in his eyes.

He had acted on impulse, Tom had let himself be controlled by something other than his mind for once, and by the way his pupils were dilated entirely, she could tell that he was taken aback by it.

He had planned to set the Basilisk loose again tonight, as it was growing terribly impatient and bloodthirsty, and Tom himself wanted to test his powers against the mudbloods yet again. Now, however, his mind was too cloudy for it— Varya had managed to ruin his plans.

"Tom—"

Then, he pushed himself off, eyes looking everywhere but at her, and the girl stood against the fireplace, breathing irregularly, wishing she had the confidence to just...do something. Tom leaned down, grabbed the burned volume from the ashes of the wood, and inspected it, debating if a spell could fix the damage.

"I will see you in class."

And with that, he went up the stairs and slammed the door behind him.

***

She had to break up with Icarus Lestrange.

It would pain the boy deeply, and it would hurt her to see him hate her for how she had led him on, and yet it was the right thing to do. Perhaps, if she had listened to Rosier from the start, it would have been an easier string to cut, and yet her selfishness had made her act out of her own desire.

But she could never love him, at least not how she loved Tom Riddle, and Varya just had to learn how to accept that. There would always be something missing between the two of them, and the night they spent together was only more proof of that.

It had been satisfying in the sense that he was an experienced man. Icarus had been around court women before, older women perhaps, and it was not his first time doing such things with another girl. However, for Varya, it had been, and although she could not bring herself to regret it, something similar to shame built up in her soul.

Varya found Icarus outside by the lake, standing beneath a tree with his eyes closed as he breathed slowly, letting the wind ruffle his taffy hair in every possible direction. His robe was thrown on the grown, he was sitting on it, and he had rolled up his sleeves to let his skin feel the heat of the spring rays.

She took a moment to look at him, at the boy who had learned to love her despite everything and had created an image of herself in his mind that she could never live up to. In a different life, Varya and Icarus could have been happy, really happy— in this one, they were destined for doom. He looked so serene, and the witch had come to shatter his heart.

The moment he had heard the sound of steps against the freshly cut grass, his eyes of fire whiskey rose to her figure, and the warmth they held almost made her stomach turn inside out. Icarus' lips pulled in the faintest smile, and he let his head fall back against the tree to get a better look at her.

God, how could she even stand herself?

She had everything most girls wanted— a beautiful, intelligent boy who loved her against all odds. However, she wanted to throw it away. It was crude, and part of her hoped she would never find love again, not after maltreating him.

"Hello, love," he said brightly, then immediately pulled his eyebrows in a concerned frown when he saw her dismay, "What is wrong?"

Varya felt rivers of sorrow pull at her eyes as she kneeled before him, cupping his face with delicate hands and looking at him with so much regret. She did not want to let him go; he was so precious and so loving. Nevertheless, she could not think about how he made her feel, not when the girl could not return the favor.

His arms immediately went around her waist, and Icarus pulled her in a hug as she sobbed in the crook of his neck. They could have been so good together; they could have conquered worlds. She had to let him go.

The boy held her tightly, ignoring the stinging feeling in his eyes as he knew what the girl was thinking. He had hoped he would have enough time to convince her to stay with him, and yet he had failed in every way.

Varya pulled her face away, rheumy eyes gentle as she peered at him, and her dark eyelashes curled around her puffy eyes, "I—." The words got caught in her throat as she saw his grey eyes, the faintest storm in them.

"Go on," he whispered with a shaky voice.

"I cannot do this anymore."

Lestrange's hand went up to her face, wiping the tears with a regretful sigh, and he gulped slowly as he felt his whole body weaken, "Why?".

"I think," she started, trying to piece words together in an attempt to preserve some sort of happiness for the boy, "Icarus, you are a wonderful boy. Moreover, I truly wish that I was at a point in life where I could let myself be loved by you and reciprocate that passion. You see, I think you have fallen in love with a person that you have created in your mind, almost like a reflection. But I am not that person."

"Whatever do you mean by that? I know who you are; I have been around you for months now, and yes, perhaps I fell quickly, but that kind of feeling is not based on time."

The girl shook her head, avoiding his eyes as she listened to the hurt in his voice.

"No, Icarus. You see me as this wonderful girl that is some sort of...light in your recklessness, but I do not want to carry that weight," she admitted finally, and the witch felt something lift off of her chest, "I am not a good person. I have never been, and I am not the kind of girl that enjoys balls or jewelry. I like practicing dark magic; my pulse quickens when I learn a new ritual, I dream about redeeming my name and becoming a powerful person in the wizarding world."

"Of course you are a good person; you are different from the rest of us—"

"But that is the thing, Icarus! I am not!" she said in exasperation, "I might not be as dark as Riddle or as macabre as Avery, but that does not make me some sweet, innocent girl that is here to brighten your day."

How could someone love her when she did not even know who she was? Half of her life had been wiped away, stored behind reddish barricades of magic. Varya was a manufactured ideal of whom Grindelwald had wanted her to be, and she had to discover herself before anything else.

"That makes no sense, Varya," he frowned. "Is this because of Riddle?"

There it was, the question she had hoped he would not ask, as the girl did not know how to answer that. In truth, Tom had played a significant role in her decision, as he was the one who had captured her heart and caged it so that nobody else would be able to steal it. And Icarus deserved to know the truth behind her decision.

Her silence was enough of an answer, and Icarus' hand dropped from her face as he stared out at the lake, trying to soothe the anger that was simmering in his heart. He could not blame the girl for it, no. It was goddamned Tom Riddle, always playing with the minds of those around him, making them feel secure when in reality, all he did was put them in danger.

"You say I cannot see you for who you are," Icarus began, eyes still trained on the horizon, "but do you truly believe that he does, Varya?"

The girl looked up at him, unsure of what to answer.

"He does not," he deadpanned, "All he sees in you in your potential to be weaponized. He wants you by his side not because of who you are, but because of the power that you hold. And once he achieves his goals, he will discard you immediately."

Varya frowned as she felt the sting in her heart, and she recoiled from the boy, putting a bit of distance between them. Her throat constricted, and she wanted nothing more than to get up and leave.

"Why would you say that?"

Icarus chuckled bitterly, "I have known him for five years, Petrov. Believe me, that boy will never be capable of love, and you will only end up hurting yourself in the process. And you deserve better— maybe not any of us, maybe you should go off with that Parkin boy and try to stay away from all of us."

"So now I am _Petrov_?" Varya scoffed, her voice cracking at Icarus' sudden change in behavior. The boy's eyes immediately widened, and he wanted to smack himself over the head for being so crude with her. Just because he was hurting, it did not mean that he had to take it out on her.

He sighed and reached out to grab her hand and pull the girl back in his arms. Icarus guided her head on his chest, and Varya let herself be embraced, knowing it was probably the last time they would hold each other like this.

The sun had begun setting over that Black Lake, and the sky turned the slightest hue of tangerine as the final rays of light had begun sizzling in the soft wind. Spring had brought its first flowers, and the sky was clear that day. His hand stroked her sable locks and played with the softest strands that fell in slight waves, and he found himself humming the song they had danced to on the train. That memory seemed so far away now, and everything had seemed to change in between.

The girl felt his heart beat against her back, and as he hid his face on the top of her hair, she could have sworn she felt the slightest dampness on his cheeks, and yet Varya did not dare turn her face around. She twisted her neck to rest her face in the crook of his, and inhaled his sweet perfume, trying to memorize the way it made her lungs tingle for one last time.

She wanted it to be him. She wanted to love Icarus so much it made it impossible to breathe, the kind of love that consumed her heart, and turned it into nothing but softness. Yet, every time he looked at her, she could only imagine azure eyes and a smile that promised heartbreak.

"You are better than him," she mumbled in his neck, "You are the kind of boy that will one day make a girl so happy she will not believe you are real, and you will build a family and move into the mountains, have a daughter— maybe a son too. He will have none of that; he cannot."

"He will have you," came the faintest whisper, and the boy's voice had a slight raspiness to it, almost as if something was constricting his throat.

"He will not," breathed Varya, "Nobody will."

Because she did not know what she would become once her memories would be restored, and yet something told her it would not be anything good. Even after the faintest traces of remembrance had slipped through the cracks, she had already gone darker, and the girl would only continue to do so.


	40. chapter thirty-eight

IVAN PATTED HER burning skin with a cold towel that he had stolen from Lawrence's bag, then dipped in the water that was slowly dripping from the pipes of the building. She had been aching throughout the whole night, and he had to hold her down multiple times and stop her from exploding with magic that had been suppressed for so long.

"It is eating me alive," Varya breathed, feeling the way the shadows of the room moved with every word she muttered. "You know I am going to die. Dalibor said it himself; I will not make it past the age of fourteen at this point, not at the rate it is consuming me."

"You will," came the voice of Ecaterina as she moved in her bed. She had been there the least of all of them, and yet was the weakest, "All they have to do is erase your memories again. If you do not remember what they did to you, it cannot cling to your feelings."

"But it keeps breaking through," Varya wheezed as Ivan tried to get her to sit against the wall, "Every few years, it starts breaking through. And when I remember, it unleashes. They said I killed half of the staff at the castle last time, and I—"

"You are not going to die," Ivan's rough voice sounded through the room. He had stayed awake to take care of his two friends, who had both fallen ill due to the continuous testing. "None of us will die. We will see the sunrise again; we will see our families."

"I do not have a family," Varya remarked bitterly. "I thought I had a caretaker. She was merely fiction, some kind of imagery they put in my brain to hide the years of torture."

"Then, you will see the sunrise."

"I like thinking about those things, you know," answered Ecaterina before she spluttered in a fit of coughs. Varya tried to stay positive, imagine a world where the girl could survive, but she would not make it through the week. She had a few days, at most. "Before I got sent away, my mum always made me cherry pies for my birthday. I did not like them, but I think I would eat them well now. However, now they think I am dead, and how do I come back from that?"

"My parents think I am still getting an education here," muttered Ivan as he made his way to the other girl, and ripped a rag off of the sheets. He used it to tie the girl's hair, make her feel better as she— no, she could not die. She was too young. He shook that thought away. "I mean, why should they think otherwise? Dalibor has us in here for months to no end, then sends us out with our memories wiped. Then, we come back here, and he breaks everything down through torture. He likes playing this game, I think. I suspect he has long given up on his experiments; now, he does it for fun. But when I go back home during the holidays, I cannot tell my parents what goes on. I have started leaving myself small messages, things to jog up my memory when I go back up. My girlfriend, Lydia, I think she is keeping track of everything. And when she figures everything out, she will let us know."

"I do not get it," Varya's voice croaked, and she stuck her tongue out to feel how dry it was. "Why am I different? They only have me in here when my barriers break."

"Because they know that you would destroy everything in your way if they got you too mad. They cannot risk cracking you completely, especially not when Grindelwald has his eyes on them," explained Ivan before he threw himself in his own battered bed, looking up at the ceiling and counting the number of dead flies in the spider webs. It was the game they liked to play every night before bed, and whoever lost had to take care of the group the next day.

"I wish they would stop making us forget each other. I always feel like something is missing whenever I go back to the surface," tried Ecaterina. In her mind, she was trying to cheer them up, but the tragedy of their situation only made the ache throb.

"What do you remember that was real, anyway?"

Varya thought for a second, playing with the strings that were coming off of her shirt, "I remember seeing my parents die. I remember Grindelwald locking me up in that stupid castle for years and telling me not to use my magic because it would get me into trouble. And then he sent me here, and they held me for a while until I was supposed to attend school. I guess that is when they started messing with my memories, and well, I am not sure now."

"I still do not understand how it works."

"Neither do I," sighed Varya, "All I know is that as long as I cannot think of the pain, I cannot feel it. And if I cannot feel, it will not awake."

Silence fell between the three of them, and they counted the flies. Varya won, and Ecaterina came last, but they all knew she was in no condition to do anything. So Ivan traded places with her, saying she will cover for him next week. She would not make it into the next week.

"Ivan, Varya?" Ecaterina called out into the night.

"Yes?" Varya asked, although she could tell by the tremor in the girl's voice that she would not like what she had to say.

"If I die—"

"You will not."

"But if I do," said the witch, "Remember me, yeah? Maybe not in the next few years, but eventually, when you get out of here. Go tell my parents that I loved them and that I wish things did not end up like this. Fight against the barriers, Varya is proof that they can be undone. And then, when the time comes, burn this school to the ground."

***

With each memory that Varya was uncovering, she felt as if she was losing herself more and more. Her personality, her beliefs, and her experiences had determined her spectrum of emotions, and, realistically speaking, there had always been a missing part of her.

She saw the world through glasses that had been fogged by something mystifying and had no actual concept of what other people felt. When she had left Scholomance, Varya Petrov was merely a shell, a barrel of negative emotions that were starting to creek from pressure, and there was only a matter of time before she would have combusted with fire and chaos.

Now, all she needed was a catalyst, and Tom Riddle would make sure he was exactly that.

The girl had visited the Ravenclaw Chamber and had brought her textbooks in hopes of studying for her exams. The month of March had almost passed them, and soon they would be going away for their spring break. When they came back, however, they would be taking their O.W.L.s, and the girl wanted to make sure that her grades remained pristine.

Icarus had come to study with her despite her constant words of rebuttal. She thought they needed time away from each other, whereas the boy believed that being in her presence would help him move on. It made no sense, and yet Varya could not bring herself to contradict him, as she felt guilty enough for what she had done.

To make things smoother, they had made Abraxas Malfoy join them, despite the fact that the boy was now balancing his quill on his nose rather than doing his homework. There was slight awkwardness in the room, as the three of them were not the closest of the pack, and it only grew stronger once Tom Riddle barged into the room.

Tom approached her, sovereign look on his face, "I must speak to you." The girl nodded, and when she did not make to move, he narrowed his eyes in distaste, then flashed them to Icarus, "In private."

With a deep sigh, she lifted her body off the divan and followed the Slytherin prefect outside of the room and into the owlery. Although March had brought a warmer breeze, the Western Tower was still chilly, and Varya felt goosebumps on her legs. With horror, she realized she had forgotten to pull up her socks up once again, and flushed as Tom gazed at her scrambling to correct her outfit. If he thought anything of it, he did not let know.

"I need you to come in the Forbidden Forest with me," he cut to the chase, ignoring the way the girl's eyes enlarged at the idea. He knew that she had not visited the forest since killing the Thestral, but he wanted to test something, and the only way to do it was to bring her back to where it all started.

"You are insane if you think I would come with you there," the girl snorted and tried to make her way past him, but Riddle grabbed her arm and dragged her, quickly pushing her back before releasing it.

"That was an order," he pronounced, and his jaw set in nuisance when she only rolled her eyes at his words, not caring much for his authority.

"And I cannot bring myself to imagine whatever it was that gave you the impression that you can order me around," Varya spat acidly, resenting the way they were getting in another fight for no reason. He was so infuriating, and she did not know whether she wanted to punch him in the face or— "And anyhow, I cannot help you. I know your mind only cares about one thing, but I actually need to study for my exams, and Icarus is waiting for me."

That was a lie, but she was too shameless to admit that the notion of being with Icarus did not bring her as much joy as it should have, more so when the guilt began spreading around her body like rust on a machine, yet Varya wanted to irk a reaction out of Riddle.

The boy, however, only gave her a spine chilling glare, something between irritation and confusion, "You are such a disappointment. I thought that by letting you in on my plans, you would acknowledge your potential and rise to the occasion, be the witch you were meant to be, and yet you are just like the rest of those mindless buffoons."

"Oh, please. Shove your opinion of me up your arse, Riddle."

_Terrible idea._

" _Levicorpus_!"

Varya yelped as she felt her legs fall beneath her, then suddenly they were in the air, and she was trashing against an invisible force that had her hoisted upside down, raven ponytail skimming against the owlery floor.

"You bastard!"

"Watch your tongue, Petrov," Riddle sighed and watched with an amused smirk as she continued to dangle in the air, hands waving around in an attempt to claw at him. To spite her even more, the boy approached her, barely so, and stood right outside her radius so that no matter how much she tried, she could not grab him.

"Get me down!"

"No."

"I will chop your head off and feed it to the trolls, you repulsive serpent. Merlin, my head is spinning— get me down, Riddle."

He tilted his head and blinked at her slowly, then pushed against her forehead and made her swing back and forth. Varya gasped in frustration as she felt the dizziness grow stronger with each second, and she cursed herself for not knowing the counter spell to the jinx.

She yelled after him as he turned his back and left down the stairs, leaving her there to hang for the next person that decided to send a letter to their parents, or for Icarus to rescue when he realized the girl had been gone for too long.

Ironically, it had actually been Malfoy that walked out to look for them, and when he saw her hanging with a frown on her face, he threw his head back in a hearty laugh, "He could have done worse."

"I am literally hanging upside down, Malfoy. A few more minutes and I would rupture a vessel in my brain," remarked Varya as she felt the blood flow to her head, then grabbed his shoulders as he helped her down and muttered the counter-spell.

Varya thanked the boy swiftly, then proceeded to run down the stairs and find Riddle, hellbent on confronting him and hexing his nose off, and yet as she turned the corner and entered the fourth-floor corridor, she saw Riddle leaning against a wall, arms crossed as he watched other students pass by.

She stopped in her tracks, and when he gave her a satisfied smirk and hoisted an eyebrow, Varya realized that this was his way of getting her to follow him. Her goddamned heart drummed at the sight, and she ignored the heat under her collar as she approached his arrogant figure.

"Took you long enough," his voice was as neutral as always, and then he motioned for her to follow him down one of the staircases. Varya stood still for a second, mind on the evening she had promised Lestrange, and then something pushed her to walk forward and follow the prefect into the courtyard.

The West Tower overlooked the Forbidden Forest, so high up in the clouds that one could skim the edge of the trees and catch a glimpse of creatures peeking their heads out. The sky was clear that evening, and as the twilight took over the rocky edges that Hogwarts stood on, Icarus breathed heavily as he saw the girl he loved saunter into the woods with Tom Riddle yet again; his heart twisted, and he blinked away the repulsive stinging in his eyes.

It hurt profoundly, and he wanted to curse the skies for having him fall for someone like her, who, despite all his efforts, only had eyes for another person. And yet, Lestrange could not bring himself to forget her. A part of him still thought there was a chance that one day, Varya might share his appreciation. Until then, however, he lived with the torment of barely having her.

Varya, on the other hand, was excusing her behavior by convincing herself that she would be back by nightfall, and then the two could finish their studies and rekindle whatever dysfunctional friendship they had had. The relationship was very odd, as it had been strained by their break-up, and the girl only wished they could go back to being platonically close.

She had enjoyed the kisses, the affection, but when it came down to returning the deep emotion, she could not help but take a step away from Icarus.

Tom led them to the deeper part of the forest, and Varya recognized it was around that area that the mavka had come to her, and shuddered at the memory. She had not been getting any closer to figuring out what had been attracting so many creatures to the western coast of Europe, but truthfully, there had been so much going on that she did not know what to focus on first.

"Why did you bring me out here, Tom?" Varya asked once the boy stopped in front of a tree. He turned around to look at her, eyes analyzing every twitch in her body, every pull of her lips, and then he responded.

"I want you to join the Knights."

The ground beneath her seemed to rattle, and Varya held her breath, waiting for the other part of his statement to hit, and when that did not come, she let herself exhale. Her mind twirled at high speeds, and she felt the defining moment in time almost grasp at her edges. Tom walked to her slowly, arms clasped behind his back, and he stopped right in front of her figure, head slightly bent as he towered over her.

"Why?" she inquired softly, not knowing what to make of it. The witch knew that it could be another part of his plot, a way to make her let her guard down definitely, and yet her skin buzzed at the idea.

Tom licked his lips; then, his head turned away from her as he looked around the forest carefully, scanning the surroundings to make sure nobody had followed them. He pondered for a second on how to answer her question, knowing that if the girl knew the real reason behind his invitation, she would not be accepting it. He had to deceive her, make her think she was part of his group, and lure her into opening the tunnels of her power. Then, he could harness it, and with her by his side, nothing would ever stop the Knights of Walpurgis.

"You are wiser than most," he began, and it was not a lie— the girl had a mind almost as sharp as his, and if she would ever allow herself to think rationally, put her emotions in a tightly sealed box as he had, Varya could become a force of catastrophic proportions.

"Surely, you do not believe I would fall for that," she jeered, eyebrows going up in ridicule as her eyes fell in an eagle look, "Many are wise, Tom. Few join your ranks."

"Few have the bravery to stand up against immorality, Petrov. Few are the men and women who are willing to sacrifice themselves for a cause they believe in, especially one as strenuous as mine," he said aggressively as he moved around her slowly, head tilted at an angle and expression alive with wrath, "The wizarding world has been corrupted by cowardly and faint-hearted sorcerers, and men like Dumbledore deny their capabilities in favor for their own comfort. I want greatness, and I am offering you a chance to stand by my side as I conquer lands that have had no master, as I bring Hell down on those who oppose me."

"You are still failing to say why you want me to join you," scoffed Varya, eyes trailing his figure with characteristic recalcitrance. "It seems to me you are hiding behind white lies, Riddle."

He growled before starting toward her, loathing the way her refusal stung his pride. Could she not see the honor that was being bestowed upon her? Tom felt the need to grab her throat, and squeeze the acceptance out of her until her mind was so dizzy from lack of air that it would only bow to him.

"More so, who says I would want to stay in your shadow, Riddle?" she jeered as she approached him slowly, swinging her body in ridicule, "If I am so wise and brave, why not just...do it myself?"

"You cannot truly believe that you would ever be a challenge, Petrov. I would crush you like a filthy little roach," he growled, taking a few steps back to put distance between them.

The wind howled as the tension rose, and Varya felt her blood pump faster through her body as the absolute fury at his words settled in. That arrogant, impertinent wizard, who always thought he was untouchable and above any harm, was now challenging her in ways nobody else ever had.

"You want to test that, _half-blood_?"

And with that, Tom cast his first curse towards her, and Varya threw herself to the ground just as the spell whizzed past her ear, not expecting him to combust out of anger. She rolled to her side as the boy sent another spell her way, his forehead tensed in wrath as he continued advancing toward her, much as the general of an army would.

Varya scrambled to her feet, then ran behind a tree as the boy blasted the ground beneath her, and in her hurry to get away from his maddened anger, erupting with the most vicious jinxes and hexes.

"Hiding already, Petrov?" He spat from the clearing, and Varya felt her body shake as she realized she had acted too rashly. She looked around quickly, taking note of her surroundings. There was not much to work with, but as her eyes scanned the ground, she noticed the multitude of sharpened rocks, Tom Riddle might have been a beast in western martial magic, but Varya had her eastern tricks up her sleeve. "Come out and play, do not disappoint me like this, dear."

With an agile twirl, the girl hurried from behind the tree, and sent the rocks toward the boy in a tsunami of daggers, and Tom yelled with fury as one pebble dashed at his skin before he could put his shield up. She had been the first to draw blood, and that would not go without punishment.

Riddle was the next to act, and he sent another blasting spell, this time at the tree behind her, and an enormous branch dropped over the girl, sending her to the ground in a matter of second. Varya had thrown herself backward to avoid it, and yet it had still caught her leg and crushed it.

"Fuck," she screamed, tears pooling in her eyes at the pain; the wizard was insane, she did not realize they would be dueling to this extent, where they actually injured each other. Varya barely managed to counter-spell as the boy send another stinging jinx her way.

"God, you are a coward," he sneered, and then he came to her and pressed his foot on the branch, pushing it harder against the injured leg, and Varya cried in torment as she felt her bone break through her skin. "Where is that mighty pride now, Petrov? Calling me a half-blood as if you dared look down on me. Perhaps, I have been too nice to you, too welcoming, and it is time I show you what—"

He was blasted away, hitting a nearby massive rock with his back, head colliding with the hard surface, and he felt the world go blank for a second as he groaned in pain. Their surroundings had grown dark as the sky covered in gloomy clouds, and the wind had begun to swirl, making the trees sway around like they were grass in the softest breeze.

Tom opened his eyes just in time to see a whole tree trunk hauled at him, and he rolled off of the rock and fell to the side, hands gripping at the grass as he tried to steady himself and get back on his feet. Varya had recovered, and although she still stood on the ground, bone cracked through flesh, she had a ravenous desire for retaliation in her eyes.

She waved her hand over her leg speedily, and Tom smirked as her wound healed fastly, bone popping back in black with a loud _crack_ and skin sewing itself together. _There she was, little innovating witch_. Now, he only had to push a little harder, and he would have her right where he wanted.

He pressed his hand to the ground and felt it rattle beneath his frame, and then it split in two as the roots of trees swirled in the air, sharp and heavy, and Riddle flicked his wrist as they surged toward the Slavic girl that was still trying to get up.

Varya growled with frustration as she barely managed to overpower his hold on the roots, and the two stared at each other as they battled for dominance over the element, minds clashing and hands raised in the air.

"That is enough, Riddle!" screeched the girl, wanting to end this before one of them got seriously hurt. The boy, however, only gave her a wicked smile before dropping his hold on the trees and sending another hex her way, this one hitting her at full force, and she felt her body fly through the clearing before thumping the edge of the river.

The spluttering current sent ripples of water to her face, and she groaned as her body ached. She would surely bruise and would have to ask Icarus for help in healing all of them. The sound of the water flow filled her ears, clashing against the ringing of her cochlea being rattled, and the witch slowly lifted from the gritty bank.

Riddle made his way through the trees quickly, and smirked as he saw the girl struggle in agony, delighted at having caused anguish to such a mighty witch. At the end of the day, he was still the one that dominated, as the girl was severely untrained, or something was holding her back. He had to push more.

"Riddle," Varya growled, "For the love of Merlin, stop throwing me around like a rag doll!"

She did not want to hurt the boy, she could not bear the idea of inflicting pain on him, and so she tried to get him to back down and reason, not caring about winning more than his well being. Tom, on the other hand, only raised his wand to her figure again, and before Varya could even rebuke, she felt herself hit the body of water.

Her hands and legs struggled frantically against the flow, but it was hopeless, as Riddle held her underneath the surface with his spell. She battled against the sensation of water invading her lungs, and she clasped at her throat in panic as her mind fogged with danger and terror. He was drowning her; he was actually trying to get as close to killing her as possible.

She trashed aimlessly, scared out of her mind— she lied, Varya did not want to die, especially not at his hands, and she bit back the need to scream for help. Her body was slowly sinking, pulled by the invisible force of his curse, and her hands gripped at the last few rays that reached the bottom of the river. Her eyes closed.

Tom stood on the riverbank, looking over the rush of water, wand still trained on it, and his eyes scanned its edge to see where the girl would resurface. His eyebrows furrowed, and his heart beat faster as he realized that Varya was nowhere in sight, and then he almost considered dropping the plan altogether and diving in the water to find her.

"Fucking hell," he mumbled as he realized she was not coming up. Had he messed up? He threw his wand to the ground, and hurried to take off his robe before throwing himself in the river. He quickly cast a bubble spell around his head, and swam further down.

His eyes burned as the intensity of the swirls hit them, and his hair floated around him once he dove deeper, searching the bottom for a sign of the girl. There was no indication of her, and he spun around madly, trying to spot her flowing hair.

And that was when something grabbed at his leg, and he got dragged deeper. He fought against the creature that clasped against his foot, trying to kick it away, and then it clutched at his shirt and pulled him closer.

_White eyes._

Varya's face has morphed into something as sinister as the corpses that were scattered among the river's bottom, souls that had drowned in previous years, and their skeletons ornated the muddly sand. Her onyx hair swirled around her, and she gave a macabre smile before he bashed his head against the rocks that adorned the pit.

Riddle grabbed at her throat, but she only bashed his head again, cackling madly at the rouge that had started surrounding them, and she stuck her tongue out and felt its sweet, diluted taste on her buds. Then, she waved her hand with fury and sent his body upwards in a tsunami, and his figure hit the ground with a loud sound.

Tom coughed, ignoring the trails of red that had started shading his vision, and he quickly took control of his jittery hands as they touched where his blood had dripped. He had never bleed before, and it filled his being with disgust— an admittance of his mortality.

The storm had hit the ground full-on, and he raised his head to the sky as the pouring rain fell down in buckets of coldness, thunder wailing through the forest. A lightning bolt hit a tree nearby, and ravens scattered in the hurricane, covering the sky in a wave of darkened feathers— an omen of death and torture.

Riddle swallowed harshly, pushing back the thought, and turned his head just in time to see the girl's body rise from the water, slowly and sinisterly, head barely hovering over the surface, only her white eyes gazing in his direction. Her hair fell around her face, and shadows danced on her figure, and she raised a shaky hand in his direction, skin an ashen gray that resembled a corpse.

He felt himself be overcome by pain, and he groaned under her hold as every nerve in his body ticked and twisted, just like Billy Stubb's bunny had all those months ago. Blackness extended from her like smoke from a burning building, and it cackled like a whip against the ground. As much as the boy tried to fight against it, the witch just would not let her hold of him drop, and he bit back every scream as he stared at her with his veins thrumming against his skin, refusing to cower before her.

Varya's figure approached him, but her twitching face told him that the girl was long gone behind a screen of darkness, and that there was no reaching out to her senses. He had done it himself; he had known what the risks were.

 _And now, she was going to kill him_.

A red flare shot toward the girl, sending her flying, and Nicholas Avery surfaced from the lining of the trees, wand out, and pointed in her direction. His eyes were widened, and dark hair fell over his face as the wind blew more ferociously, an apocalyptic scenery dawning over Hogwarts. Maxwell Nott stumbled right behind, and he ran to pick up Riddle from the ground as the boy was slowly losing consciousness.

"Bloody hell," cussed Avery as his eyes met Varya's blank ones, who twisted on the ground before getting back up, neck veins pulsating against her skin, and her mouth opened, letting out the darkness, "You just had to poke at it, Riddle, did you not?"

The ground burst open, and the trees started falling in heaps, aiming for the boys' heads, trying to squish them like ants. Avery sent out another spell, but it was immediately blocked by the gone witch, and she laughed madly at his pitiful attempt, "Are you going to kill me, Avery?"

Then, with a simple wave of the hand, she threw him to the side, and he barrelled against the ground until his body stopped rolling. Nicholas Avery was no longer moving.

Varya's voice had become so guttural it was painful on the ears, and Nott grimaced and covered them, trying to get the high pitch out of his brain. It was like worms had started eating at his gray matter, and he felt a sloosh in his skull, the agony intensifying by the moment. He banged at his head, then fell to his knees as he gasped for air, hands pulling at his roots until he almost outrooted his own hair. Riddle, who was barely conscious at this point, grabbed at his hands, "Stop it, Nott! You are going to claw your eyes out if you let her get in."

However, it was too late, and Maxwell's scream filled the entire forest, so soul-splitting that the villagers of Hogsmeade turned their heads to the castle, frightened as they looked at the darkened sky. The ravens continued flying above, their frightful song harmonizing with nature's furious cry. Nott was going insane, and his whole body trembled with agony as his mind filled with gruesome scenes of splattered organs and burning flesh. A man had been skinned alive; he was hanging from a tree. A woman had been nailed to a wall; her daughter was weeping. His parents, his younger sister. All dead, all butchered beyond recognition.

Varya's mad laughter resonated in the storm, and she raised her hands in the air in a soft movement as she twirled and danced to the boy's wails, head twirling, " _Nott is going mad! Nott is going mad!_ ". Her body moved slowly, delicately, and yet there was so much tumult in it.

Tom looked over at what he had done, at how he had pushed the witch's mind beyond the point of control, allowing the force inside of her to take over her being. What was most frightening was that this was not even her worst, as she was still corporeal, and although shadows and smoke danced around her, it had not been released fully.

He scrambled to find his wand, knowing that his magic was stronger when he used it, and crawled to where he had thrown it before. He felt a foot crash on his palm, and he bit back the cry of torment that bubbled, not letting the girl have her satisfaction at his pain.

Varya grabbed him by the back of his shirt and threw him at the ground again, then put her foot against his throat and pressed harder, wondering what it would feel like to snap his neck right there.

She leaned over Tom Riddle, who was looking at her with the uttermost loathing, and whispered in his ear, "Any last words?"

"Go to hell," he spluttered, although they were not meant for the girl herself, but to the parasite that had been eating at her soul for years, at Grindelwald who had been raising her to be nothing but a vessel for a machine, and at himself, who wanted to use her curse for his own good.

And then she plummeted a dagger to his chest.

_And her Obscurus unleashed._


	41. chapter thirty-nine

THE FORTRESS HAD always been morose. It was made of only one tower, and it stood in the obscure shadows of the Austrian Alps, dominating over the forests that surrounded it. They called it a castle, but it was more of a secluded prison for Grindelwald's enemies, and there was never anything imperial about it. There had been balls or meetings— that is where the Alliance met, but since they declared open war on the wizarding war, it became a detention center more than anything. The mountain terrain made it hard to access, and that guarded it against the constant attacks of opponents.

Varya had her own room on the sixth floor, and it had a balcony and a few windows, but they were all sealed with charms. They did not want her jumping off. Her time at the Nurmengard Castle was one of the most somber of her life, and it had been filled with days of torment and punishment.

She was only seven, and she should not have felt what she did— the need to end it all, to jump off of the building, to be with her parents again. God, the things they did to her, and the agony of it all. It was so sadistic in nature that eventually, her mind had started shutting it off, and that only angered them more. As long as she remembered, _it_ would thrive.

Now, they were carrying her luggage to a carriage at the Grand Entrance, and the girl was dragging her stuffed bunny along the dirty pavement, catching the dead leaves in its ears and dusting its white fur. Her caretaker, an old lady so bitter she put lemons to shame, was waiting for her out front, tapping her foot impatiently.

Miss Pichler was not the kindest woman the world had seen. As a matter of fact, she had little compassion for those around her, and had immediately grown to hate the young child when Grindelwald had brought her to the castle.

"Why can I not use a broom?" Varya asked quietly, eyes downcasted in obedience. She did not want to travel in a moving cage for so many days. They were sending her away to a school, and she could not understand the reasoning behind it. She was never allowed to practice magic in the castle, so what would she do at Scholomance?

They never allowed her to practice anymore, not after killing so many staff members of the castle. Her Obscurus was tethered to her emotions, and when the girl realized what was happening, she tried the best to suppress the parasite that had been placed inside of her.

_Slap!_

"You stupid little girl, how many times must we tell you that you are not allowed to do magic?" Miss Pichler roared at her, voice so pitched it sounded like a fire siren. Her white hair was pulled in a bun so tight it pulled at her fallen features and made her look almost insane as she raged on at the poor child.

Varya cried, cradling her cheek and hiding her stuffy nose in her toy as she let her sobs rattle her body. Pichler's hand grabbed her by the hair, and she screamed as she was dragged to the carriage, then thrown inside. The seven-year-old looked up at the only motherly figure she had had in her life, and the torment inside her was something no child should feel. Why did Pichler not love her? What had she done wrong?

"Merlin, I hope they treat you _very well_ at that school," the caretaker said wickedly, "But remember little one— all you are..."

The woman got closer so she could whisper something in the little one's year without any of the servants that were moving the baggage hearing.

"Is a slaughter pig."

Then, she shut the door harshly, letting the darkness spread through the windowless carriage, and Varya trembled in her spot, much as she did every night. She was mortified, so scared of what was to come, and all she could do was cradle her knees to her chest and cry out for her dead mother. Nevertheless, Lyudmila had died years ago in the mausoleum, and no matter how much Varya had shaken her limp body, she never answered her calls.

Then, she had felt herself submerge in darkness, and had woken up in the tower, with a man with white hair looking down at her with impatience. Since then, he had made sure that she was fed and clothed, and yet he had subjected her to the most severe abuse.

"One day, you will continue what your parents started, and you will understand that everything I have done was only to strengthen its force. You will be a martyr for our cause. _For the greater good_."

Grindelwald had been trying to tame it for years, but to no avail. Every host that he had chosen for Ariana Dumbledore's Obscurus had perished before reaching the age of thirty, and his latest attempt, Credence Barebone, had been just as big of a disappointment as the rest.

He had died in battle shortly after the mausoleum, and even before that, the boy had been letting Newt Scamander's words reach his gullible mind, intoxicating him with false idealism of nurture and kindness. That is when the Dark Wizard realized that he needed someone stronger, and much more loyal, so that he could weaponize the parasite by controlling the host.

When Cornelius and Lyudmila Petrov had offered to give birth to a child that would be raised as a vessel for their cause, the Alliance had been more than delighted and had sent them to a foreign country to hide from the Ministry. Romania had been just the right fit, especially as Grindelwald took over Scholomance, and entered her in Dalibor's trials.

It was atrocious, so much so that even some of the most wicked people in the Alliance had not developed the stomach for it in almost over a decade. Scholomance subjected its students to the most torturous mind games, and the coven had really no care for those who could not survive. Training werewolves to shift at will and control themselves, injecting students with various substances to test the best way to minimize magic, taking their blood away only to feed...well, _certain beings_.

Now came the next problem— getting the child to survive long enough that she could be bred to unleash her monstrous power against the common enemy that was Albus Dumbledore. While Obscurus had always been masses of incredible darkness, powerful enough to destroy cities in mere minutes, human vessels could not withstand such parasites. Despite all of their attempts at preserving the girl's vigor, she grew weak in frame and mind over the years, and the torture they had implemented on her to withhold her magic and make her a suitable host did not help.

Wicked little things— parasites. They never really killed the host until they were done with it. Instead, they made it go insane, lose control over their own magic, weakened their strength to the point of being susceptible to any type of manipulation.

Varya Petrov had fallen sick multiple times during her childhood, and she had grown a temperament against those who would betray her. Eventually, they had to develop a solution— if the mind did not remember the torture, if the body were reset to function with magic, then the Obscurus would become dormant.

After all, it was Dumbledore himself that said that Obscurus could be reversed if the feelings disappeared.

It had taken years of trial to discover magical barricades strong enough to banish such devilry, and every few years, it would start resurfacing as the witchcraft wore off. She had been raised to fulfill a task, and nobody truly cared what would become of the girl after, when her mind would fall due to the years of torment.

Then, Grindelwald had come up with an innovation. What if he was able to merge the Obscurus with the witch? She had remarkable magical capabilities due to her ancient bloodline, so much so that if she ever mastered her Obscurus, she would become a force of nature.

And yet, there would never be enough time for that. Varya Petrov was a time bomb, and her expiry date had been set in stone as soon as Grindelwald had let the parasite infiltrate her body. She would not make it past the age of eighteen at this point, and even that was a stretch with how her body was deteriorating.

The Deathly Hallows— initially, he had wanted them only to raise an army of inferi, and yet now they might have proved to be useful in more than one instance. If he could keep Varya frozen in time, then the witch would be not only a force of darkness, but also the most powerful Necromancer to walk the planet.

_She was the ultimate weapon._

When she disappeared from Scholomance, everyone had known it was Dumbledore's hand, and yet they had not made a move. While at Hogwarts, the girl was out of reach unless they started gathering forces.

Thus, they did just that. Except, Grindelwald knew that witchcraft would not be enough to defeat them. No, he needed something...darker. His soul could not handle something so evil, so wicked, so he had to have someone else strike the deals.

Now, they were coming. And they were merciless.

***

The dagger came down on Riddle's chest, and a second before it pierced his skin, it stopped.

Elladora's hand gripped Varya's wrist just as the dagger was about to plummet in Tom Riddle's ribs, and her heart beast faster as she realized the situation she had found herself in. Selwyn had never been the best at combating; she played dirty, and slipped nightmarish poisons to her enemies while they were unaware.

As the Eastern witch turned around, her figure already being obstructed by swirls of sooty darkness, the other pureblood knew that she was in over her head. Her actions had given Tom enough time to react, though, and so he rolled from underneath Varya, and grabbed his wand in a last attempt at taming the beast that had resurfaced.

Godamn it; he had poorly misstepped on this one. Furthermore, as he looked at Nicholas Avery's limp figure, Tom could only hope that he had not screwed everything up for all of them. He had wanted to rile the girl up, speed up the process of her awakening, but his anger had gotten the best of him, and now he was in a situation he did not know how to handle.

Had it not been for Maxwell Nott reading the volume Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them to a scratch, perhaps he would not have known the most effective way to tame the parasite as it seemed to explode out of the witch's body, a swirl of dark wind and destruction.

But as he raised his hand towards it, muttering the spell that the boy had told him, Tom felt his power surge and entangle, and it hit Varya right in the chest, sending her flying in the air. Her body hit a tree in the distance, and it immediately knocked her out.

The spiral of darkness retracted slowly, but surely, and the wind began to settle as the force disappeared. Elladora was panting, body frozen at the confrontation, and she thanked Merlin that she had gotten there at the right time.

"Merlin," she breathed as her head moved around to assess the damage, hands moving against her face to settle down her untamed hair. A few trees had been outrooted and thrown around aimlessly, the ground had fissured and raised towards the sky, and there was blood all over the stones of the riverbank. It belonged to Tom Riddle, who had a deep cut on his forehead, and was limping towards the crouched body of Maxwell Nott, "You ought to go to the hospital right now, Riddle. You have lost too much blood and—"

The Lord raised a hand to silence his acolyte, giving her a grim look that made her lips snap shut, and then he turned towards his archivist, who was shaking on the ground, mind in pieces. He gripped his shoulders, trying to shake him out of the trance Varya had put him in, "Nott, you are all right. Your family is fine; it was only an infused nightmare."

Nevertheless, Maxwell continued to sob on the ground, and at that moment, it was painfully apparent that he was the weakest amongst them, the one who had never trained for battle. He was also one of the youngest, a few months away from turning sixteen, and yet he had just envisioned his whole family being murdered before his eyes.

Selwyn ran to where Avery's body was, and with a shaky hand, she reached out to his neck to check for his pulse— faint, but still there. A breath of relief left her lips, and she knew that another day had passed by where all of them had survived. She grabbed his arms, then hoisted his lanky body up, and looked at Tom, "What are we going to do?"

"We cannot go to the Hospital Wing. They will ask us questions," he mumbled as he made his way to where Varya was. If they went to the Matron, she would surely tell Dumbledore what had happened, and it would take him no time to figure out that it had been Varya to cause this mess. If they were lucky, they would believe that the brief storm was simply the changing Scottish weather and nothing more. "How is Avery?"

"Knocked-out, possible head injuries, but alive. I could fix him up with my brews, but I have nothing for your gash," the girl breathed as she forced Nott off of the ground, and his body was still shaking as he took a look at Avery's collapsed form. He sobbed louder.

"Get them out of here," Riddle groaned, already annoyed by the younger one's constant wailing.

Elladora nodded slowly, then encouraged Nott to get up and help her carry Avery to the owlery. Tom watched them disappear amongst the trees, then turned to the girl that was lying on the forest ground. She was paler now, and her chest barely moved as she breathed.

His head pounded, and he felt light-headed as he picked up the girl, letting her legs dangle from his side, and started walking through the woods. His body ached as it had never before, and his stomach churned at the thought that he had been so close to—

However, it had not scared him. Not like he would have expected, at least. There was a moment before Varya almost sunk her knife in his heart where he had accepted it, when he had come to terms with the fact that he was mortal. It had been fleeting, and yet it was real.

He reached the owlery right after Elladora, his legs barely keeping him up, and yet when Icarus Lestrange ran to him to take the girl from his arms, he gave him a frown and kept going. "What happened?" asked Icarus as he paced by his side, hand reaching out to touch Varya's limp figure.

His worry disgusted Tom, and he could not understand why Icarus could not just give up his pursuit, especially after the girl had broken up with him. Merlin, love was such a weakness, and it had polluted the boy's brain to the point nothing could resuscitate it. Such a pity, at that, that Tom's best fighter had been softened like this.

"I woke the Obscurus up," answered Riddle as he placed Varya's body on the circular table in Rowena Ravenclaw's study, and he frowned when he saw that her skin had grown colder. His eyes flashed to Elladora, who was now tending to Avery's injuries with a few mashed creams she had, spreading them around the boy's head and trying to heal any internal wounds, "Pass me the blanket."

Icarus fumed beside him, and it took all of his self-control not to punch the leader in the face. He had put her in danger yet again, and probably for his self-interest, "And why would you do that, Riddle?"

Tom turned to him, eyes cold with villainy, and he raised a single eyebrow at his follower, "Are you questioning your Lord, Lestrange?".

Lestrange felt himself back down, and yet he stood by Varya's figure stubbornly, holding one of her cold hands as Tom covered her with a blanket. It was only then that he noticed the bleeding gash on his leader's forehead and the way his usual poised figure had grown tired and wobbly. Riddle held his head in his hands, shaking it slightly to flutter away the small mosquitoes of static that buzzed the inside of his skull, and yet his frame only grew weaker.

"I am going to rest," he mumbled quietly, then turned around and left the room after throwing one last look at the passed-out Eastern girl.

Maxwell Nott was still in the corner of the room, staring blankly at the clock's tongue as it moved with every passing second, forcing himself to calm down. He was still trembling, and whenever he would glance at Varya Petrov from the corner of his eye, he would feel terror enveloping him as he remembered how she had danced to his screams.

He knew it had not been her fault, that the girl had just been overpowered by her emotions due to Riddle's manipulations, and yet the nightmares she had infused in his mind had made him realize just how fucked up everything was. It was easy to play at something big like conquering the wizarding world when you were safe behind Hogwarts' walls, when everything was just a plan on paper. Nevertheless, acting on it was much different, and somehow Maxwell had never considered the consequences of his actions until Varya had shown him.

Now, he was not so sure about Riddle's plans anymore.

He had always been one of his most devoted followers, and yet when they had started everything, at the green age of twelve, it had seemed more a child's play than anything. However, it had gone past that a long time ago, and they had all done crimes that no person their age should have. There was only more to come along the way, and Nott was starting to become doubtful. The seed of uncertainty had been planted in his mind.

Nott glanced over to where Nicholas was sweating on the table as Selwyn tended to his wounds, and his heart twisted at the idea of losing his childhood friend at such an early age. He had never thought it possible, as Avery had never been knocked out in battle. Now, none of them seemed as invincible as they had thought themselves to be.

"He will be all right, no?" asked the youngest, and Elladora sent him a gentle smile, nodding slowly. She had always had a soft spot for the boy whose mind did not entirely function like the rest of them, who enjoyed the company of books more than he enjoyed other people.

"I cannot believe this happened," muttered Icarus as he continued to stroke Varya's hair benevolently, and he threw a glance to Selwyn, who was avoiding his eyes.

Her heart squeezed. The boy had become wholly devoted to the Eastern witch, and had not even spared Elladora a glance in the past five years despite being in the same circle. The way he looked at her, he would never look at Selwyn, and it was agonizing knowing that he preferred fantasy over a possible reality.

"What did you expect?" grunted Elladora, and she took out a pair of scissors to cut down some bandages. Then, she wrapped them around Nicholas' head tightly, making sure not to restrict blood flow, and yet to press enough so that nothing could slip into his wounds and cause an infection. "Riddle has wanted this since the beginning— her power is the key to everything we have ever wanted. You care about her, but you have seen those documents. She was born to be slaughtered, a vessel, and attaching yourself to her will only cause you pain. She has a year left at most."

Lestrange wanted to curse Grindelwald for what he had done, and Varya's parents for agreeing to hand over their daughter after their death. This was no life for anyone, and he could not imagine how the girl would react when she would find out the truth.

"Not if Riddle succeeds with his plan. He is right, it might be nefarious, but it will fix her problem and—"

"We both know she will never go with it," argued Selwyn as she made her way over to Varya's figure. "And say that she did survive, what kind of life would that be? Either she will end up in the Alliance's hands and be used in war, or Riddle will drive her mad with his strive for power. Even then, she would always be hunted by the Ministry— they would never let her survive and walk around. She is a threat to the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy."

"So what, Selwyn? We just let her die?" spat Icarus, getting up from the table and away from the girl whom he had grown up with. Once upon a time, Elladora had been an innocent, delicate, and delightful girl, and yet her envy had turned her into more a monster than a human.

The girl stayed silent, eyes flicking between the boy and Varya, and then only sighed as she gazed at his back, longing for something she could never quite have.

A small sound escaped Varya's lips, and then she groaned as she started fluttering her eyes open, trying to adjust to the bright light of the study. Her lungs felt as if they had been twisted dry, and she started coughing as soon as she raised her head. Icarus ran to her side, and patted her back gently.

She remembered everything, and Varya wanted to cry as her eyes met Nott's. The girl had seen everything unfold, almost as if watching a car drive down a road while in the passenger seat, and she had screamed at herself to stop so many times.

Her hands flew to her face, and she pressed palms against rheumy eyes as she cursed herself for all she had caused. She wanted to just sink beneath the ground and let it swallow her, take her away from everyone so she could not hurt other people.

The Eastern witch gave Icarus a rueful smile, and everyone in the room watched as she got up slowly, guarding themselves for her next attack. Varya looked around, and the arrow of guilt dashed through her heart, "Where is Tom?".

The Knights exchanged nimble glances, unsure of whether it would be a good idea to send the witch to their leader, especially so soon after they had almost killed each other.

"He went to rest," returned Selwyn eventually, then pointed in the general direction of the door.

Varya ran out of the room immediately, ignoring Lestrange's call and the way her body burned as she skipped steps and ran to the Dungeons. She wanted to find Riddle immediately, make sure that he was still breathing, and then punch him until he turned purple and blue. The goddamned wizard had broken her mind yet again, and last she remembered, the girl had told him that there would be consequences.

She barged into the Common Room, ignoring the odd stares some of the three-years sent her, and then she grabbed onto the staircase balustrade that led to the boy's dorm and hoisted herself up. There were a few doors down the hallway, and if she had to, the witch would pound on every single one of them until it swung open and revealed that infuriating satanic boy.

Varya's blood boiled the longer she thought about it, and she had to calm down her shaky breathes, knowing well that when her emotions were heightened, the magic she possessed slipped from her control. But Merlin, she had murder on her mind.

Fortunately, Rosier swung open one of the doors as he struggled to carry out a bag of clothes, and Varya spotted a bloody shirt in his pile. When he saw her, he made to stop her from going inside Riddle's room, but the witch had long forgotten manners, nor cared if it was improper for a woman to enter a boy's room. Fuck their opinions.

She barged into the room, almost kicking it down, and when her eyes fell on Tom's figure by a mirror, dabbing his cut with a wet towel, her soul split in two— some part of the girl wanted to tear up at the idea of having hurt him, and yet another part wanted to rip him to shreds.

The second part screamed louder.

Shards of glass blasted in the room as the girl sent a curse to the mirror, and Tom barely caught a glimpse of her in the reflection to put up a shield. He turned and cursed loudly, knowing that Varya would overpower him in this state.

"You are going to tell me everything right now, Riddle. Or so help me God, I will blow this school to pieces and take you all with me."

Tom stood still, looking at the pieces of glass that were scattered on the floor, and he debated his choices. He could try to fight her, perhaps use the glass to send dozens of daggers to penetrate her skin until she bled out on his floor and her red liquid spilled through every crack. He could try to hex her, just as he had done in the forest, and hope that her Obscurus could be destroyed.

Or, he could finally surrender to her, and admit to his plans, convince her to join him instead of always plotting and twisting her mind.

"You are an Obscurial."

Varya should have reacted in some way— violence, sorrow, chaos. She should have shattered the bed's frame with her magic, or should have let a river of torment and anguish flow down her face until she choked on her own cluelessness. And yet, she stood in her spot, face not moving an inch.

The witch wanted to die.

She could not feel anything anymore, not the way her chest rose with every shaky breath, or Tom's azure eyes as they were trained on her with piqued interest, or the small breeze that ruffled her hair as her magic sizzled beneath her fingers.

Her reality had been shattered so many times that it felt like an endless loop of fate's cruel jokes, and she did not know what diety she had upset in her past life that her life had become such an entangled ball of nothingness.

"How?" she whispered, and her hand clung to the frame of Tom's bed as she held herself up with her last traces of vigor, knowing that her knees would give in at any moment.

Tom avoided her hurt gaze, not favoring the way it made something in him twist, so much so that he felt the need to pluck out his heart and smash it against the pavement in cold fury. He kept his composure and made his way to his trunk, then opened it and pulled out the documents Rosier had given him all those months ago. He passed them to her, and Varya grabbed them with half a heart.

Slow hands flipped over the pages, and with each paragraph, her face grew more somber, more heartbroken. The Slavic girl had always thought her childhood to be one of the nightmares, and yet she had not imagined this.

Documented horrors of human experiments carried on children, some dating back as much as two-hundred years ago. Many of them marked in red — _deceased_ — or yellow — _failed_ — and yet only one stood in green amongst the wrinkled pages.

_Varya Petrov - Obscurial/Witch._

She had been brought in after accidentally killing enough workers at the Nurmengard castle that a second graveyard had been added, and her Obscurus had started manifesting more and more as the abuse continued. Grindelwald had grown frantic to tame her, and had reached out to dear-old Dalibor to include her in his trials.

The Dark Priest was known to conduct such gruesome experiments on his apprentices, and had no remorse for those who succumbed under the heavy pressure or due to the horrible conditions they were kept in. As the doctor marked down their deaths, he would often tell them what cause to cover it up with— strigoi attacks, mavkas, kulmkings, anything that could be attributed to a creature of the forest.

They had tried to reverse her Obscurus by altering her memories and weakening her magic, trying to chain it to the subconscious, from where it could only be freed by breaking down the barriers.

Dumbledore had known this, then. He had been aware of what would happen if she revisited her past, and how the Obscurus might start eating at her life again, and yet instead of searching for a solution, he had just let her go on with her day. Perhaps, some part of him thought it best that she put an end to her life by remembering everything.

Tom Riddle had also been aware, and her eyes watered as she realized that the boy had not cared for her life, or how her death would become set in stone if he unleashed her darkness. Even more so, Icarus Lestrange, the man that had continuously professed his love for her, had also let everything unfold.

"How long have you known?" her voice cracked as she asked him this, and the agony that swirled in her eyes, like black holes that had sucked all of the despair from the universe inside, almost made the boy tremble.

Tom cleared his throat, and struggled to find words, his mind shortly short-circuiting, "Since the Rosier Ball."

So long, the girl realized. For so long, they had known what had been happening with her, and yet they had hidden everything, trying to play with her as you would with a toy. Her vision fogged as she marched over to him, grabbing a fist of his shirt and clinging on to it for dear life as she felt her heart shatter.

"You have let me die; you have treated me like an insignificant value in your life, and for what, Riddle?" Varya's voice was a mix between fury and anguish, and Tom found himself breathless as he looked into her despondent eyes. "I am so tired of people treating me like I am only part of a scheme, some weapon that they can use to torture each other and conquer. I am a person, Riddle! I breathe, I cry, I feel, and I bleed just like the rest of you. I am not an emotionless machine that you can dispose of when you achieve your goals."

Tom felt his wrath grow as her babbling continued, and her tears of agony fell as she cried as she had never before. Varya's hands clutched on his shirt in desperation, and he had to hold her elbows to prevent her feet from caving in as she broke down into pieces before his eyes, so utterly succumbed to her own demons.

He did not like the way everything in him told him to comfort her, reach out, and try to soothe the pain that he had caused. Riddle would much rather have relished in her agony, and yet he found himself completely disturbed by her sorrow.

A blossoming cherry tree that shed its flowers in the harsh wind of May, with pink dust flying around the meadow in waves, Varya was an ingenuous girl that had been stripped of every possible source of comfort and salvation in her life.

She had never felt so utterly hopeless, with no control over her life or destiny. The girl would never grow up or have a family; she would never know what it would be like to explore the world on your own. Her life would have been a short, sad joke, filled with heaps of dismay and disappointment.

"Why would you do this to me?" Varya wailed, and she punched the boy's chest repeatedly as he stood there motionless, unsure what to say or do. Tom Riddle had never had to comfort someone's suffering because, frankly, he did not really care what effect his actions had on other people.

He had seen Elladora cry when he had yelled at her for not completing her tasks, had disregarded when Maxwell grew gloomy when his effort was not acknowledged, and had ignored Abraxas' hurt whenever the leader would overlook him. Furthermore, he had never cared for their feelings because sociopaths did not feel guilt; they lavished in it. Tom had never felt shame for inflicting pain on someone.

Until now.

The boy let Varya hit him with weak fists; he let her tell him how much she hated everything about him, how he was nothing but scum, and did not deserve their loyalty. The burning feeling in his abdomen only grew, and he found himself pressing his lips in irritation at the sensation. Tom did not like it, and he wanted the girl to stop making him feel, so he grabbed her wrists and fought against her anger.

"Petrov, enough of your wailing," he bit at her, and then threw her arms to the side and away from him. The girl glowered at his reaction, and then her hands flew to her face as she sobbed and paced around the room. "I have no time for your dramaticism."

"Fuck you, Riddle," Varya yelled, and then she grabbed the textbook from his desk and chucked it at his head. Tom dodged it, but the girl only kept grabbing things from his room and throwing them at him. "You are an emotionless bastard who will never find happiness, and you will annihilate everyone who cares about you!"

Tom grabbed his Defense Against the Dark Arts volume from the air and continued trying to evade her anger, and he felt his own wrath growing, "Would you stop this?" he roared, then threw the book right back at her. Merlin, she was more infuriating than anything he had ever had to deal with, and the burning in his stomach kept growing as he watched her face cover in tears.

"You will end up alone, sad and immortal! And what will you gain out of that? Everyone will leave you because you are so emotionally disturbed that you feel the need to manipulate every breathing soul that passes you," she continued yelling, and then picked up his parchments and started tearing them to shreds, "We get it, Riddle! Your mum died; you grew up in an orphanage. Poor you! Some of us were tortured and experimented on, some of us had to watch everyone they love die, and yet we are not half as terrible as you."

He watched helplessly as she continued trashing everything in her way, a hurricane of madness and desperation, and Tom knew that he had been the cause of it. Her words bothered him, and for the first time, it was not just his pride that stung.

"You know what the worst thing is, Riddle? I had hope for you— this whole time I thought that maybe all you needed was some sort of guidance. But you are a monster, and you make Satan look like a coward compared to the things you do! You murdered your father, your whole family, because you did not want to be associated with him, but you know what, Riddle?"

She stopped for a second, and looked him dead in the eyes.

"You are exactly like your filthy muggle father."

Then, the breeze started picking up, and the lights on the ceiling started flickering and casting shadows on the emerald walls and tapestries. The ground rattled, and the room cried of a soft creak as everything in their chamber swung from side to side. Tom glanced at the shelves Malfoy had mounted on their walls, and he saw the books and glasses fall and crash to the ground.

And Varya cried and screamed as she picked something up, throwing it in the air and then sending a flash of black flames to it, immediately burning it to bits before Tom could even react. It flared up, and the pages of ink turned to nothing.

_His stupid fucking diary._

The burned bits fell to the ground like feathers of a raven, and they both watched them turn to ash as they scattered between the stone cracks. Varya stood still, breathing heavily as her eyes flickered between the burned journal and the owner, whose face was slowly growing red with rage.

"You stupid little witch."

His hands were on her throat before she could even react, and she felt him tighten his grip as he choked her until there was nothing but spots in her vision. Varya trashed against him, and kicked against his abdomen, but goddamn it; he was strong for a lanky boy. Eventually, she managed to get it a nasty scratch at his face, and the boy recoiled from her, hands touching his cheek in absolute wrath.

She looked at him, and breathed at the way his face was covered in cuts and bruises— all her own doing. Satisfaction grew in her stomach, and for once, the girl could not bring herself to care that she had hurt him. Tom deserved it, all of it, every bit of pain that she had brought him.

"I hate you," she said, and her voice cracked because she knew she did not entirely mean it. Fuck her irrational feelings and the way her heart surged whenever he glanced at her with those turbulent eyes and a roguish smirk. Fuck his absolutely brilliant mind and ravishing looks. Fuck Tom Riddle and everything he stood for.

The boy approached her once again, and he towered over her with bloodied curls and the kind of gaze you would not wish on your worst enemy, "I despise everything about you, Petrov."

And yet, why could he not mean it? At least, not the way he had said it once.

The girl leaned back and felt her elbows hit the matters as he leaned over her slightly, trying to get in her face. And then his hand grabbed her hair, and Tom pulled her face up so that he could see the hatred in his eyes, and he felt his abdomen churn at it. God, how much it pleased him.

"I hope you burn in Hell, Riddle."

He loathed her to the core, so much so that he wanted to rip her throat out right then and there. Their eyes carried absolute wrath, and his steel-blue eyes, so cold and sinister, met with her deviant sable irises in a swirl of delusion and hopelessness. He pulled at raven locks harsher, and enjoyed the way she let out a small hiss between sultry lips, then glanced back at him as her breathing came to a halt. Tom's face came closer to hers, and he glared right back.

"Why do you hate me so much?" she breathed, eyes scanning his face, and she had to hold back a gasp at how he made monstrosity look so ravishing. Fiendish pupils were dilated as he looked at her, and his jaw was set as he huffed through his nostrils, pants heavy.

"Why?" he sneer was caustic, and it almost made the girl flinch at how much venom he carried, "Because you are weak. You could achieve so much; you hold power in your blood that most people would dream of, and yet you have no determination to use it— even in the forest, when you had darkness oozing out of every pore, you could have killed me. Nevertheless, you did not. There was a second of hesitation, and that was enough for Selwyn to stop you. That is pathetic, Petrov."

The girl wanted to wince, and she ignored the stinging in her eyes as she probed further, "And what else?".

"You walk around Hogwarts as if you have everyone wrapped around your pretty little finger, and yet how many times have I bested you, Petrov? Are you not a lot embarrassed of yourself? Time and time, you fail, and you cry like a stupid little child," his breath fanned her eyelashes, and he smelled of mahogany and blood, "Varya, you have no power in you, only the arrogance of a stupid girl that is in over her head."

Varya had to look somewhere else because she could not handle the utter hatred in the man's eyes— the one she loved despite all. Her throat constricted, and yet her body shook with the faintest sob, and she closed her eyes in agony, "Is that all?".

He threw his head back in a sinister laugh, then trained maddened eyes on her, "Of course not, how could it be? That is not even the worst, Petrov. There are so many things that are just so wrong about you, so much so that it makes me want to gauge your eyes out whenever you are too close." He watched as her face scrunched in hurt, and a macabre smile grew on his face as he savored her pain. "And you want to know what is the uttermost disgusting thing about you, Varya? You truly want to know? It is the way you make me want to—"

He stopped, and the girl looked back at him with rheumy eyes, "Want to what, Riddle?" her voice cracked.

Tom continued to stare at her, at the way her dark eyelashes had become damp with the saltiness of aqua pearls, and now they fenced sooty eyes that were duller than the coldest day of January. He tried to open his mouth— let her know exactly why she was the most vicious and repulsive creature that he had ever seen. However, his words caught in his throat. He could not speak.

But he could show her.

_And so, he kissed her._


	42. chapter forty

TOM RIDDLE’s lips fell upon hers in a harsh kiss, and he pulled at her hair to bring her face closer as he wanted to taste every tear that had fallen on her face, feel her sorrow and agony. Varya whimpered and threw her hands around the boy's neck as she pulled him down until their bodies were utterly flushed, and her head spun, and everything buzzed.

He pulled her off the bed and slammed her against the wall, hands immediately going to her waist as he hoisted up her legs to circle his hips. Tom pressed himself against her as he continued to move his lips in absolute fury, biting down on the lower one until he felt metallic on his tongue, and heard the girl whine softly. God, he wanted to hear more of that.

Her nails clawed at his neck and scalp, and then the witch twisted a hand in dark curls and pulled at his roots until he broke away with swollen lips and wild eyes. Tom looked at her with a gaze filled with the most sinful desire, wide and responsive, and he made to dive back in mashing of lips and pants, but the girl stopped.

"My neck," she breathed, and he immediately pressed wicked lips against her collarbones, hands hoisting her up and trailing her thighs up and down, slipping devilishly under the cotton fabric of her skirt. He traced smooth fingers on the inside, then immediately gripped her flesh, so hard Varya let out a yelp and threw her head back in intoxicating pleasure.

Riddle pulled at her stocking, letting the elastic band slap against her legs in a painful tug, and he smirked against her neck when he felt her shiver in pain, then let out a soft groan as the girl moved against him.

"Stop that," he panted and restricted her movement with a steady hand. No, she had to work for it more; otherwise, how could he enjoy her torment as she squirmed underneath his hold? He looked at her and his breath caught in his throat. Her lips were parted in a circle of opalescent reddish nuance, and her onyx eyes carried a dazed mixture of pleasure and defeat that he wanted to relish in. So he pulled at coiled midnight locks and brought her lips to his own yet again, moving frantically as they tried to consume whatever passion was between them— love, hate, it did not matter at that moment, all just a foggy cloud of heightened pulse and roaming hands.

Riddle's skin burned everywhere, and like the wicked arsonist she was, Varya only struck the match against it more as she let one hand slip on his chest and fumbled with his buttons, opening them without even training her eyes on him. And when the last one stood stubbornly between his skin and her palm, she ripped at it with force and trailed nimble fingers everywhere.

Tom had never felt something like this, he had never experienced a black flame in his chest, and the goddamned witch had come and set fire to his whole soul, to the point where he could care less if she made him weak between the walls of his room.

The witch sucked on his bottom lip, and her mouth muffled his hearty groan, and he only pressed himself against her more, until every atom clashed against the other, and the friction drove him to the point of despair. His hands flew to her neck — goddamn it, he wanted to see her struggle — and gripped tighter as she moved again, forehead against him and face contorted into something it had never quite shown. Her eyebrows were raised in absolute bliss, and her cheeks coated in the dirties crimson — she looked so docile it drove him mad. No, he wanted her to fight against him.

Tom let out a low growl as he buried his head in her neck, and then one of his hands pulled her roots until her head lifted off the wall, only to slam it right back with sadistic pleasure, and his toes curled as he heard her whimper.

"What the fuck?" whined the girl, and yet she tapped into the pain with a sickening satisfaction. Merlin, he was so utterly macabre even in his desires, and she was a masochist for allowing him to explore such things. Varya did not mind; she much preferred it to her other experiences.

"Shut up, Petrov."

If Icarus had been the plucking sound of a violin string, Tom Riddle was a whole fucking orchestra, and devious hands played Chopin's Marche Funebre against her skin as they scratched and pinched and twisted.

His breath fell in another key, and his hum of satisfaction was an ode to the demons that had tempted them into sinning like this. Nevertheless, his lips on her skin were divine, and if this is what Lucifer was all about, then the girl would fall in front of a different kind of altar.

He grabbed her waist and held it still as they moved against each other and touched everything and everywhere, and his lips trailed downward on her neck until they reached her collarbone, where he sucked and nibbled furiously. Then, her hips rotated against his, and the moan that left his lips made the girl go light-headed, and she kept moving in want and desperation, trying to make the best of the situation and the layers of clothes.

She wanted more, and perhaps he did too, and yet teasing hands only trailed the edge of the lace underneath her skirt, tugging on it before releasing, and the girl could see the satisfied smirk on his lips at the way her whining increased.

"Any problem, Petrov?" he murmured as he trailed his lips down from her chin to her collarbones, then pressed a kiss right in the middle, slow and torturous. Varya bit her lip and held her breath— goddamn it, could he just do it already? His hands raised her sweater over her head, and then he lowered his face until he was right in front of her stomach.

Tom peered up at her from his position with mischief, and his lips pulled in a smirk as the witch grabbed at her locks in frustration, before her hands made their way to her own buttons. He stopped her, then clicked his tongue against his cheek in disapproval.

"Who needs who now?"

She was about to kick him in the face, she really was, and her frustration was building up to the point where it consumed her entirely; and the Eastern witch lowered herself down to his level, then pushed him to the ground, climbing over his and straddling his hips.

His chest was muscular, and she scratched at it before placing kisses from the middle down to the edge of his belt, where she blew a soft breath that made him buckle up. Tom groaned and grabbed her hair; then he hesitated— he did not know what he was doing.

Varya sensed it immediately, and made to take his belt off and unzip his pants in a swift motion, then trailed her hand over the part of his boxers that had raised.

The boy saw stars as she placed her lips right on the hem of his underwear— an exponential universe of pleasure Riddle had never quite known before, and somehow he doubted anyone else could show him galaxies the way she did.

Then, she placed her lips right where he ached, and she licked and sucked with the dexterity of an experienced woman. He tried not to think of her and Icarus, as it only made his wrath grow, and he grabbed at her hair before making her go down on him completely, moving her head furiously at the thought of her having been with someone else. Varya felt her eyes water, and yet the sensation of choking was not unfamiliar.

Riddle had a posh voice, and the way it sounded now, so grave and raspy as low growls left his lips, and made the girl go insane. His face was scrunched, and he started moving his hips along with her in a synced wave.

Their breaths grew heavier, their sounds needier, their hands trailing up and down in loathing and pleasure, and then she felt it coming like a wave on his features, the way his jaw twitched, and his eyes closed tightly, lip between her teeth and movements frantic. Then, he pulled her up and pressed a rough kiss to her lips as he moved his hips against hers in need of friction. His face fell in the crook of her neck as they both let the ultimate pleasure glide over them like a blissful storm, hands gripping clothes harder.

"Fucking hell," he rasped against her skin, chest moving up and down rapidly, "God, fucking— what are you doing to me?"

They had calmed down now, still feeling buzzed from the high, and the world was muffled as they went limp against the ground, still holding onto each other. Tom had lost all clarity, and he let her citric perfume intoxicate his senses, breathing it in as he regained lucidity.

What had he just done? He was growing furious with himself, with how easy it was to fall underneath the Eastern's girl delicate fingers, and Tom found he did not understand the reason behind all of it.

"I could ask you the same," her voice was croaky, and only then did she realize she must have been pretty loud for her throat to hurt like this. Embarrassment flew to her face, and she bit back a wince of shame.

Tom pushed himself off the ground and glanced at his pants briefly— ah, fuck. He did not have time to worry about it, because when he peeped up at Varya, his breath stilled. Her socks were at different heights, revealing bruised skin on the inside of her legs, and he saw the trace of his hand marked on her flesh. His ego swelled with pride, and he knew it was a sign— she was his. Although he did not know in which way he wanted her, if any except the priorly mentioned experience, it was undoubtful. Her skirt was slightly lifted, dangerously so, and Tom walked over to the witch.

She watched with admiration in her eyes as he kneeled before her, and then his hand darted out to her stockings, and he pulled them up with feathery fingers, then arranged her skirt carefully. He pressed a sinful kiss to her thigh, then peered up at her with catastrophe dancing in his eyes, and got up to face her.

Tom looked around the room, and cursed as he realized it had been completely trashed, with books and paper thrown everywhere, and shelves that were half hanging off the wall. Somewhere along all of it, they had also managed to dent the wall slightly.

And then reality swiped back in, and they both remembered why they were here in the first place— she had almost killed him, he had lied to her. The tension settled back in, and Tom cleared his throat as he turned away to look at the ashes of his journal. He had had grand plans for it, and she had ruined them.

She was dying.

Varya breathed slowly as she pushed herself off the wall, then gulped, almost unsure if she should leave or clean the mess she had caused. Worried eyes cast on the man she loved, the girl wondered what he was thinking about her at this moment. She sure did not know what to make of him.

"I think—," she started, then stumbled on a torn book as she tried to fix her hair, and the boy was still looking at where she had burned his diary, "I should go."

The witch stood by the door, hand on the handle, and shifted her weight from one foot to another, waiting for him to say something. He only turned away and sat at his desk, completely ignoring her presence as he started rearranging whatever was left of his belongings.

"All right, then..."

She slammed the door behind her, then put her back up against it and ran frustrated fingers through her hair, pulling at her roots. God, what had just happened? Varya's hand flew to her mouth, and she bit back a painful sob— had he just kissed her out of hate? She loved him, and it was becoming so painful she just wished it would go away, or at least he would stop playing with her mind like this.

No, he did not care for her. After all, Tom would have just used her to get what he wanted and had not even bothered letting her know about her own expiry date. Furthermore, the things he had said— how she was weak and pathetic, although they were covered by something else, had still hurt her more than she would admit.

Varya walked down the stairs with rheumy eyes, and thanked all the deities in the sky, and below, that the Common Room was empty. She did not want to go back to the room, not when Elladora would be there with judgmental eyes, and after her outburst today, Varya knew the girl would be even more pestering.

So she walked into the dark corridor with sunken shoulders, feeling as if everything had been ripped away from her, and she could care less if a Professor would find her wandering around in her deplorable state. After all, Varya had nothing to live for anymore, and no time to live for anything.

Her legs carried her around aimlessly, and the portraits whispered to each other with worry as they watched the solemn girl walk around. She sunk to her feet somewhere in the fourth corridor, and rested a heavy head on her knees. One of the portraits disappeared from the frame, and the witch laughed bitterly as she thought that not even fictional beings wanted to be around her right now, much less Tom Riddle.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Felixius Parkin strode over to the fallen girl with hurry in his steps, eyebrows cast down in concern as he took in her figure.

"Thank you, Dolores," he whispered to the portrait that had called for him as he was patrolling around Hogwarts' corridors, and then he kneeled beside Varya Petrov. "Come on, get up."

"Sod off, Parkin," the girl grumbled as she felt her body being pulled up. Varya groaned as Felix threw one of her arms around his neck, then supported her as they walked towards the Ravenclaw tower, taking the stairs to the fifth floor.

She said nothing until they reached their Common Room, and the boy yelled for Della despite the odd night of the hour. A door opened in the distance, and then small legs stepped eagerly against the staircase, and it creaked like a little squeaky mouse. Then Beauchamp appeared from the doorframe, and when her eyes set on Varya, her heart stopped.

Varya had always been a gloomy presence, with smiles that never reached her eyes and always scanned the room frantically as if checking for danger. She walked stiffly, and before every hug, there was the slight flinch of instinct, and yet she had learned how to adapt herself to Hogwarts.

Even so, the girl in front of Della's eyes was utterly broken, nothing but empty irises and sunken face, and the Ravenclaw inhaled deeply before sitting next to her friend. Felixius looked between the two, then glanced at the clock.

"I must finish my rounds, but I should be back in an hour or so," he mumbled as he fumbled with his wand and made for the door. Then, he stopped and turned to give them one last look, "Keep her here overnight; I have a feeling this might have something to do with those Slytherin pricks."

Della nodded to her friend, then grabbed Varya's hand in hers and gave it a small squeeze of reassurance. She picked her up and dragged her to her room. Thankfully, her two roommates were out for the weekend, god knows where, and they could have some privacy. She set Varya down on her bed, then covered her with a few blankets and let the girl rest. Della pulled a chair for herself and sat by the witch.

"What happened?"

Varya debated telling her everything— Scholomance, Dumbledore assigning her with a task, the creatures, her fate. Nevertheless, she did not want to scare the girl, as Della was the only person she still truly felt connected to.

"I kissed Riddle," she said, and then her nails dug into her hands as she blinked away tears of frustration, "He hates me."

Della drew in a sharp breath, "What do you mean?"

"Tom simply hates me; he said so himself. And I do not think I can live with myself if that is true because I love him, I truly do. It came unexpectedly, like the soft breeze of the first day of spring, when you have been used to cold and harshness for a whole season —your whole life, really. And then there is him, and for the first time in a while, you feel good, kind of. There is warmth amongst a vast glacier ocean, and you cling to it because, well, what else is there to do? You do not want to sink in his depth of absolute torment because, frankly, you have had enough in your life. But God, Della, when he kisses, he makes me see stars and lights my skin on fire with the kind of passion that should not be talked openly about, and my heart simply shatters in his hands despite all."

She looked at her friend, who was still silent and watched her with curious eyes. When a response did not immediately come, Varya kept going.

"It might be because I have been raised as a self-destructive being, but I am completely captivated by him. I know I should not be falling for a serpent, but his venom is addictive to the point of madness— am I even making sense? And I tried to keep him away, look at someone else and maybe feel the same warmth. Nevertheless, Icarus was not spring, he was barely autumn, and I tried to find comfort in the beautiful colors of fallen leaves and the aroma of pumpkin, but it was always one step away from winter. In the end, I could not do it, and I had to break it off. Tom Riddle brings out the worst in me, and it is around him that I am always at my weakest— Merlin, I have never had someone destroy me quite as he does. And I love every second of it."

Della hummed, then gazed out the window with the kind of look she did not usually carry— quizzical and focused, and right there was the Ravenclaw prefect that the House was so prideful of. Then, she tilted her had to gaze into Varya's muddy eyes, rimmed by darkness and deceit, and she finally found an appropriate answer.

"I think," she said, tongue rolling her words with intention, "No, wait— I know he is lying when he says that, Varya. Tom is a peculiar person, and yet he has managed to charm everyone in this castle with pleasant smiles and gallant gestures, so much so that he has had a trail of girls surrounding him for the past five years. Now, have you noticed that they barely approach him anymore?"

Varya hoisted an eyebrow, then shrugged.

"He has told all of them off since you came," Della continued, her lips barely flinching in an upturned position, "And yet never you. I have never seen Riddle spend time with a girl, and yet wherever you go, he is always two steps behind you. I would like to think that is not hatred."

"He has his reasons," Varya tried, and although she could not tell her friend about her Obscurus and how Riddle has been trying to manipulate it for so long, she hoped Della understood.

But the girl shook her head, "If you were merely a mean to an end, he would have sent one of his devoted friends to do his job, but I believe he much prefers to be the one to approach you."

Varya groaned, then threw a silky pillow over drowned eyes, and she breathed into it, not knowing what to do. There was a knock on the door, and then it swung open to reveal Felix, who was standing there with a few sweets he had undoubtedly stolen from the kitchen. The boy's eyes flickered between his two friends, and when Della gave him a look that said nothing and yet everything, he entered the room and shut the door with his foot. It would be a long night of comfort food and tear-stained pillowcases.

***

"This is a terrible idea," mumbled Varya as Nicholas Avery invited her to come along with him in the Forbidden Forest. Lately, he had seemed to find an equal partner in her, and the boy enjoyed provoking her anger with mindless adventures.

At first, the girl had felt too ashamed even to look him in the eyes, but apparently being knocked out by her had earned some kind of odd respect from the boy, and now he wanted them to be devious together. Perhaps, it was also a way of checking her into her place, but Avery seemed to truly not care about the fact that she was a time ticking bomb.

He would appear out of nowhere, ask if she was "up for something wicked," then drag her along some patchy road in the surroundings of Hogwarts, and they would train— throwing knives, blasting curses at whatever tree stood in their way, and even use arrows and bows. The man was incredibly sneaky in his way of fighting, and would often tell Varya that surprise was the best weapon a warrior could use.

That is how Varya found out a few interesting concepts about some of the knights, specifically Icarus Lestrange. He was direct in his fighting; he enjoyed overpowering his adversary, rather than outwitting them — as Avery would — and had been assigned multiple tasks by Tom.

"Once, I believe it was last summer; he sent us to this secluded village to extort information from this old man. Merlin, it smelled like piss and cow dumping, and we had to stay around for a few days and wait for him to be alone," Avery recalled as he threw a knife at a target, smirking when it hit the bullseye, "Then, Lestrange got terribly annoyed. Burst through the door and simply knocked out his son, and he tied to the man to a chair and tortured the information out of him. Fun to watch, definitely not my style though, ha!"

It was weird to think of Icarus in such a way, as he had always been nothing but gentle with her. Even so, she supposed every person that fell in Riddle's ranks had some kind of monstrosity in them. Varya did too, and she could not bring herself to judge what they were doing anymore, almost as if that compassion had been taken away from her.

She knew the reason behind it— her memories were resurfacing, and she was finding that she grew somber by the day as she remembered the years of torture in the castle. Varya had been having nightmares, and whenever Ivy Trouche would wake her up to help her calm down, she would have to lie and say she was dreaming of her parents.

In a way, it was true— just not the way one would have expected. As soon as she had opened her mind to the flow of memories, there had been a crack in the magic that had preserved her Obscurus, and with each day, the fissure grew, and more darkness corrupted her mind. Her temperament had grown to be quite unstable, and once, she had blasted Malfoy into a wall for complaining about Della's painting skills yet again.

It was the crack of dawn, so early in the morning that not even the animals of the forest had awakened, and the damp coldness of Scotland's March had settled over the lands, covering them in the thinnest layer of frost. The sky had turned a dark color, a spectrum of grayness with the faintest traces of orange breaking through the cloud's cracks.

"Riddle wants you trained," said Avery eventually, and the girl let her unfocused eyes gaze on his movements for a moment. He picked up a dagger from the opened tray in front of him, then tossed it in the air and caught it by the handle with a cocky grin.

The muscles in his back moved as he threw his shoulder back to gain momentum, and then, with a fatal blow, he sent the dagger to the tree in front of him, hitting the bullseye— Elladora Selwyn's picture. "For motivation purposes," the boy had told Varya, and she found it quite amusing.

The subject of Riddle still touched a tender spot on Varya's soul that had not quite healed since their last meeting, and she found herself pulling her eyebrows in a downcasted look, "I doubt he cares much."

Avery gazed at her out of the corner of his eyes, analyzing the way her fingers glazed over one of the knives, then grabbed it reluctantly. She was afraid of herself, of what she could do, and that was precisely why Tom had sent him to train with her— get her to break down the barrier she had suddenly built up.

"You are leaving with him in less than two weeks."

She did not want to be reminded of that, and Varya already knew that it would be utterly painful for her to be in his presence for that long. And what of him? He had been delegating all of his followers to send her messages, and had wholly avoided her since their kiss. Tom had even taken to sitting in the back of the class for some of their shared courses, and that had earned a fair share of off looks.

"I do not imagine why you all think that is a good idea after what happened," Varya continued, then she threw the knife at the target. It perforated Elladora's brain, not her eye. Still, a killing shot. "I want to use the arrows."

He threw her the bow, then gestured towards the sky, "Might rain soon," he breathed, then Avery gave her a look, "And as long as you unleash that cloud of anger of yours at the creatures you will most likely encounter and not at Riddle, I am sure you will manage just fine."

But he did not know what had happened between the two, that fiery moment in Tom's room, and the girl wanted to curse the skies for putting her in this situation. She picked up an arrow and set it on the string of her bow, then aimed at the target, sensing the wind and correcting her posture. She shot. It missed.

"Bloody hell," she snarled, her mind too dazed to focus on her training right now. So Varya threw everything to the ground, and then sat on the damp soil, head thrown back against the bark.

The storm came from the East, and the wind had started picking up and rustling the newborn leaves of early spring. Moisture settled in the air, and the girl felt herself sweating through her gear in the forest's dampness. The thrilling sound of birds rippled through the vegetation, the dulcet tune of the sunrise hours, and nature's awakening— there was peace. She let the breeze ruffle her ashy locks, and closed her eyes as she listened to the muffled sound of thunder in the far distance, the way it echoed and soared through the trees, accompanied by the metallic resonance of knives hitting the tree's stem.

Nicholas wiped his forehead that had covered in perspiration from the strenuous movements, and he breathed heavily as he turned back toward Varya. The girl was sitting down, eyes closed, and yet she looked more serene than he had ever seen her. His hands darted to his backpack, and he pulled out something he had meant to give her.

"Petrov," he called for her, and she opened her eyes to look at the murderous boy, who handed her a package, "For you."

Varya hoisted an eyebrow, then took the wrapped gift and placed it in her lap, opening it with curiosity. The metal caught the faint sun, and it reflected a beam of light that hit her eye, and a sincere smile covered her face for the first time in days— her silver dagger.

She looked up at the boy, who was wearing a pleased smirk, "Why are you giving this back? I thought it was payment for the...trouble I have caused."

Avery had taken the dagger from her after the witch had killed the Thestral, and had even used it to torture Elladora Selwyn with it, cutting off her earlobe due to her nasty mouth. He had seemed quite fascinated by the silver blade, and had been carrying it around for a while.

He shrugged, then clicked his tongue against his cheek, "Too dainty for my collection, little vixen." A lie and they both knew it— the dagger fit right in. But perhaps it was some sort of gesture between them, something that symbolized that they were no longer foes, but accomplishes, and trained assassins enjoyed sharing their weapons.

A long time ago, Avery had found the girl as infuriating as a killing target that died before he could play with it, and had been vehement on annihilating her, or at least making sure she stayed away from then. That is why he had suggested to Tom that they keep Slug Club a secret. Then, Rosier had gone babbling despite it— damned socialite. Now, Nicholas thought he did not mind it anymore, and he actually found himself enjoying her presence.

They were more alike than he would have wanted to admit, as they both shared the same macabre tendencies and rivaled each other in spite. However, sometimes it was better to keep those who bested you close, and as arrogant and wretched as the butcher was, he knew that they could learn a lot from each other.

"There is something else in there," he said proudly, crossing his arms over his chest as the girl's hands reached for the package, pulling out a knife belt made of the finest leather, "Thought it might be useful on your trip."

Godamn it, Varya had to stop letting every gesture of kindness bring tears to her eyes, and with a shaky breath, she said, "Thank you."

It felt good — knowing that he did not hate her for almost killing him — and that Avery saw her as something more than just another pawn in their schemes. Perhaps she had started growing on them, and now there was this weird...connection between them. She could not have called it friendship. It was something more than that, and yet something less as well— the kind of bond shared by blood. Not a family, but the content of knowing that someone would die and battle for you. A messed up entanglement of blind devotion and familiarity.

"Do not go soft on me," the wizard retorted, scrunching his face in sham disgust, and yet his eyes twinkled with the same type of understanding.

Varya laughed, then felt something drip on her nose. She looked up to see droplets falling from blotchy graphite gray, and the sound of them hitting the surrounding vegetation brought newfound tranquility to the two of them. It was a cascade of small twinkles as water fell on baby leaves and hit the already sodden soil, and her hair grew fuzzy as humidity started rising.

"We should head back," she said and grabbed Avery's extended hand to get up from the ground, knees cracking at the sudden movement. Varya wrapped the belt around her waist, sliding the knife in its place, then drew her long sweater over it and closed her robe. The leather rested nicely on her skirt, and the extra weight of the weapon made her feel more whole.

They walked side by side, making small conversation about things neither truly cared about, and yet it felt pleasant in a way they were both unfamiliar with. Avery had only genuinely bonded with one person in his whole life— Maxwell Nott. They had grown up together, as his family would often visit the Rosier Manor and bring their youngest son. Initially, Avery had taken to bullying the Nott heir, as he was extremely sensitive. Then, Nicholas had brought it a dead carcass of a fox to play with in the yard, and he used it to scare Maxwell. When their parents came and saw the dead animal, they immediately assumed it had been the notorious sociopath, and yet Nott had covered for him and said he had brought it to give it a proper burial. Ever since, the two had had each other's backs.

Varya and Nicholas reached the Dungeons, and the boy quickly muttered the password to the Common Room before they stepped inside the salon. Tom Riddle stood by the fire, poised, and his hands were clasped behind his back in a fashionable manner. His ocean eyes immediately flashed to the girl, who halted in her stop and held her breath. They had not seen each other in a while.

And there it was again, the nauseous feeling that crawled in his abdomen, almost like an uncontrollable serpent poisoning his guts with something he could not quite describe in words, and yet felt like expressing through pointless touches and lips against her skin— the kind of primal need that he had never imagined would fall on him.

His mind and soul twisted as she walked past him and up the stairs, and he could only stare at her as she slammed the door to her room, almost cursing himself for not reaching out to her. Tom Riddle had never been the type of person to hesitate in approaching a woman, and yet Varya had surprised him again.

Avery threw himself on the couch with a groan, and it was enough to catch his leader's attention, "I am completely exhausted."

Tom nodded— he himself had felt quite weak in the past few days, almost like he had lost some sort of vigor, and it repulsed him. Part of him knew that it was because of the witch, and that he felt out of sorts due to her inexplicable absence, but he had come to the conclusion that it was best they stay away from each other, lest he ends up being distracted.

It was better like that. After all, he had been wearing himself out to solve the biggest enigma— how could he make Varya Petrov survive?


	43. chapter forty-one

VARYA HELD the new Daily Prophet newspaper with clasped hands, so much so that it started wrinkling at the edges, and she felt another piece of her soul break off. Elladora was in front of her, and the Eastern witch discerned it was her first time seeing Selwyn cry to the point where she could not breathe, and Icarus had to hold her in place as her whole body shook with agony.

Rosier had paled completely, and his fists held the cutlery tightly as he tried to make sense of what had just happened, whereas Malfoy was darting his eyes around the Great Hall to assess everyone's reactions. Nicholas Avery was, perhaps, the worst of all, and he stood up from his table and threw a plate of German sausages to the ground in anger.

"Avery, stop!" shouted Nott as he tried to get the boy to calm down, but he only trashed in his hold until Maxwell had to drag him out of the room and away from the prying eyes of the students.

Varya's eyes skimmed the headlines, again and again, hoping that the words would jumble together and form a different sentence and that the newspaper was merely wrong. It could not be true, no.

_Lopheus Evergeen was dead._

The picture on the front page was a good one, and his American features flashed with the arrogance that he had always shown. His lips were pulled in a coy smile, and it seemed to have been taken at Ilvermory by the attire he was wearing. It had been his final year, and he would have graduated in a few months.

They had found his body in the hotel room he was staying at in Sweeden— a rusty old motel, at that, something far beneath his wealth. He was trying to slip around undetected and had been murdered during the night. No magic was involved, they said, and they suspected it had been a robbery.

Varya knew better than that, in any case. Lopheus was a rancorous wizard, and no muggle would be able to strike him and live to tell the story. Something did not fit, a missing puzzle had been lost between the sofa's pillows, and it irked her mind.

Tom grabbed the newspaper from her hands and rumbled it in a ball, squashing the moving face of his follower, and then he threw it up and in a burst of flames. He was the most composed out of all of them, and as his eyes fell on his clique, he bit his lip in displeasure.

"You are being insensitive," muttered Varya as she played with the breakfast on her plate. Eating did not feel right, not with the news of the boy's death, nor with the shrill wailings of Elladora Selwyn.

The boy scowled, "What is done is done; there is no point in losing our minds over something we cannot change. I suspect you cannot bring him back to life, and so there is nothing we can do."

Rosier slammed a cold fist against the table, then slowly got up, facing Riddle with a look that would cost him great later. He scoffed in his face, then said, "Sometimes, you can be a real twat."

Then, Ren halted, almost as if realizing what he had said, and even Elladora broke her time of mourning to look up at the two in shock, eyes darting between Rosier's pale face and Tom's set jaw. Varya's heart plunged, as she knew that Tom would not tolerate this kind of insubordination, and thought about the best way of distracting the leader's mind.

"When are we leaving for Albania?" she questioned quickly before Riddle could make a move. The boy's eyes darted to her, almost as if he had forgotten that she was there, and then his face seemed to relax as something else took over his mind. Renold gave her a thankful look and scurried away, but they all knew this would not be forgotten.

"By the beginning of next week," Tom answered in a hushed tone, then glanced around the table. Nobody ever dared sit close to them, and yet he was still paranoid, "We will take the train from Paris, then travel to Albania."

The girl nodded, still unsure of whether she should go or not, and that was for multiple reasons. She was a ticking time-bomb, and whenever Varya was alone with Riddle, her emotions got the best of her, and her Obscurus exploded and embraced everything with darkness. Then, being around the boy itself was torturous for her, as he had been completely disregarding her after their kiss. Now, the death of a friend loomed over their heads.

Lopheus and her had barely known each other, and yet it stung. He was young, and he had gotten himself caught in a game that he should have never been part of. Varya did not know what had caused his death, and yet she suspected it was at least somewhat linked to Grindelwald.

Other people in the Great Hall had dismal expressions on their faces, and most had given up on the food in front of them. Although Lopheus was not British, his family was well known amongst the wizarding world, and his miscellaneous behavior always seemed to grace the front page of the newspaper.

Now, it had been for a completely different reason.

Varya did not know what to say to the Knights— it always hurt to lose someone from their ranks during the war, and they had all grown up together, save for Riddle. The boy looked utterly unfazed as he scribbled down his essay for next week, and the girl could only give gaze at him in utter bafflement. Was he truly this emotionless? It bothered her.

"Are you all right?" Varya turned to meet the eyes of Felixius Parkin, who had concern dancing in coffee irises and placed a small hand on her back in consolation. "I know he visited you some time ago; I imagine you must have been at least acquaintances."

That surely did stir a reaction out of Tom, who glanced between the two of them quickly, "Parkin, this is the Slytherin table. Surely, as Head-Boy, you have better duties than consoling grieving girls."

His tone was venomous, and Varya frowned in complete astonishment at his actions. Felix chuckled lightly, shaking his head at the apparent possessiveness, then retracted his hand from the witch's back.

He glanced at her again and gave her a soft smile, "If you need to talk to someone, do let me know." Then, he strode away, ignoring the absolute daggers that Tom Riddle was sending him.

The girl, however, could not just stand by and have Riddle act like this to her friends, so she scoffed and got up, completely ignoring the fact that the prefect wanted to talk to her. She walked out of the Great Hall, making her way to her Care for Magical Creatures class, and then realized Tom was taking the course as well. Damn it.

Just as the thought passed, she felt a presence by her side, and she turned to look at where Riddle was walking by her, watching Varya with a curious look.

"Why did Lopheus want to talk to you before he left?"

The secret itself did not truly matter anymore, not when Riddle already knew the fact that her parents had been alive during the Lestrange Mausoleum raid, and that she had been brought to Scholomance for her unusual predicament. Nevertheless, part of her wanted to preserve Evergreen's memory and not reveal his slight betrayal, so she lied with half-a-heart.

"He congratulated me for burning down the Room of Requirement."

The boy did not seem to buy it thoroughly, and yet he let it slide as they walked toward the Forbidden Forest, knowing that their lecture would take place there today. Silence enveloped the two, and yet they stole fugitive glances, both unsure what to say. Things had undoubtedly gone delicate and grouchy, especially with Riddle's unswerving unwillingness to acknowledge that something had changed between the two of them.

Professor Kettleburn was sitting by the Keeper's Hut excitedly, talking to another fifth-year-old as he gestured widely to the creature that he had brought for them to study— _a Thestral_.

Varya froze in her spot, and almost as if it whipped at her mind, the memory of Tom using Legilimency on her resurfaced, and she understood why the boy had never bothered asking about Dumbledore's intention to transfer her again. He thought the reason behind it was because of her Obscurus, and in some way, he might have been right.

The witch had been missing on all of their scheduled meetings, and had even been sitting in the back in his lectures, as she did not know if she could face the powerful wizard after facing the truth. After all, he had hidden everything from her just like the rest, except he was the one that was supposed to help her, and that made him worse than Tom Riddle and his Knights. At least they acknowledged their darkness, whereas the Professor only acted as if he was so self-righteous.

"Ah, Varya!" Kettleburn called after her, then waved his hand to get her to approach him. As soon as the girl was near, the creature started neighing uncontrollably, so much so that the Professor had to pull at the reigns and try to settle it down, "Peculiar, they only ever react like this when faced with something they consider dangerous, and yet I fail to see how a frail girl like you would scare them, ha!"

It should not have stung as much as it did, and yet the girl could barely flash a faux smile to him as her eyes darted to the Thestral— of course, they would fear her, she had killed one of their own. Kettleburn handed her a set of papers that had drawings of the creatures, then instructed her to give them to the class as not everyone could see the Thestral. _Lucky kids_ , Varya thought.

"Now, I want you all to grab a pamphlet and look at the drawing. Some of you might not be able to see the creature itself because you have not witnessed death, and I do not want you all to think me a lunatic," Kettleburn quipped, but the students exchanged a few glances, knowing well that they already had that opinion of him.

Someone approached them with furious steps, and Varya turned to see a mournful Avery push his way to the crowd until he reached her, then simply stare at the Professor with a blank look. He was obviously not in his right mind, grieving the loss of a friend, and the muscles in his face kept twitching as if he was trying to control himself. Where there was Avery, there was Nott, and so the younger Slytherin soon stood by the other side of Varya, sending concerned glances to his friend.

The Professor's voice faded into obscurity, and Varya could only concentrate on the disheveled look of her friend, chest stinging with empathy, and she reached out to grab the boy's fingers in a gesture of sympathy. Avery gave her a scowl, obviously upset by the fact that he was being perceived as weak, and yet he squeezed her hand as if it was the only thing that kept him from falling apart.

"He has never lost someone," mumbled Nott in her ear, making sure that Nicholas could not hear, "Not someone he cared for, at least. And I do not think he knows how to react."

Of course, how could he know? Grief was not a thing that came naturally to humans, and it took experience to become accustomed to the idea that those around you might easily perish. For a boy like Avery, who had always thought of himself as a master of evading death, it must have been quite a shock not being able to protect such a close friend.

After all, he was only sixteen, soon to turn seventeen, and there were many things that a mind that young could not phantom, regardless of its crudity. At their age, they thought themselves invincible; they thought they had years ahead of them and that the sky was the limit. Sometimes, that failed to be true, and some stars lost their shine too early.

Lopheus Evergreen had been a great friend, a charismatic boy that had always watched over the heirs as they were growing up, and, perhaps, in some way, he had been some sort of paternal figure to some of them, despite only being two years older. He had more experience, and he would treat the young ones with fondness. They were not as impassive as some might believe, and despite being ruthless in their own ways, the Knights had threads of childhood in their lives.

"— Miss Petrov will demonstrate this for all of you," came the voice of their teacher, and Varya's dark eyes shot up in astonishment, having been lost in her thoughts. She approached the Thestral, eyes shaky as she saw the creature stomp its feet, but Kettleburn urged her to come and try to mount it.

"Professor, I do not think—"

"Nonsense, my dear, we all know that they do not attack unless they sense danger. Come on, do not fret."

How wrong he was on that, however, as the Thestral started jumping on its back feet, trying to crush the girl underneath livid hooves, and then retracting the closer she got. Varya reached out to the beast with a trembling hand, heart pumping with fear, and the creature only continued resisting fiercely. Her mind blanked, and paranoia settled in as memories of a silver blade against a dark neck slipped in, the anguish of killing an innocent creature ravaging her mind.

Then, she felt the wind pick up at her distress, and she saw a shadow extend and retract chaotically in the darkness of the forest. The witch tried to calm herself down, but it was simply too much, too much death and suffering— Ecaterina, Ivan, Lopheus, how many more would die around her? How many had died around her that she could not remember?

Suddenly, just as if it had been tranquilized, the Thestral ceased its relentless aggression and settled as if nothing had been wrong to begin with. Kettleburn applauded and urged the girl to touch it, and so she did. The Easterner let her small hand skim the dried skin of the monster, and she knew right then that it had not quieted because of her, but because of magic.

Eyes darted to Riddle immediately, and she might have missed the slight concentration on his face, the way his pupils dilated as he controlled the beast, had it not been for the way he was staring at the Thestral with absolute mindfulness. It did not take her long to understand that he had used her fear and paranoia to take control of the Thestral, just as she had taught him in the Rosier woods.

For personal benefit and exercise or to help her, the girl was not sure what his intention was, and yet she found herself to be grateful for his interference, as her Obscurus had started skimming around the edges of her soul.

Varya made her way back to the crowd of students, but she sat by Riddle this time, who acted as if she was not even around. She huffed in nuisance, already growing tired by his hot and cold attitude towards her, and started dreading their trip to Albania. Had she not been utterly infatuated with him and irrational, she would have long kicked him out of her life.

Nevertheless, they fit so well together it was almost sick, and whenever she doubted herself, the girl would remember the way he had kissed her— so absolute and decisive, as if she had been the only thing that could please him. Varya wanted more of that. She wanted him to kiss her again, and yet they had not been alone together in weeks.

Kettleburn dismissed the class after reminding everyone about the play that would happen later in the day, and Varya felt her heart sink at the thought of Elladora going on stage after hearing such terrible news. She might have been a complete twat most of the time, but nobody deserved to lose those they cared for.

Varya saw Avery stomp away, and ran up to catch him, but Icarus Lestrange stood in her path, eyebrows furrowed in concern, so the girl stopped and looked at him with an incredulous look. They had not talked, not since she had found out the truth about how he had been lying to her this whole time, and she did not know if she wanted to hear what he had to say.

"I have nothing to say to you," she muttered, trying to pass by him, but he stopped her by grabbing her hand.

"Varya, you are being so unfair—"

"Unfair?" the girl thundered, suddenly overcome by immense anger. "This whole time you knew what was going on— that I literally had a parasite inside of me that was slowly killing me, and you said nothing. But then you claim to love me, right Icarus? How can you say that when you never stood up for me against Riddle?"

Icarus's face turned sour, and Varya could tell that the guilt was eating him up. As she started walking back to the castle, she could hear him trailing behind her.

"You lied to me about your feelings too— you were in love with Riddle the whole time and yet acted as if you liked me and—"

"I did like you, you absolute fool!" the girl pivoted to get up in his face, and the boy stumbled backward and landed on the ground, surprised by her sudden anger. "I did! And even after I realized whom I loved, I still made an effort for you— because I cared! Yes, I was selfish. Big fucking surprise, it comes with the package! But there is a difference between that and what you did to me. I assume responsibility for my actions, and I was honest with you when I realized things were getting out of hand; meanwhile, you and your friends kept messing with my mind repeatedly this past year just to weaponize me. You let Elladora poison me, you let Rosier invite me to alert Grindelwald of my presence, and then you let Riddle hide the truth from me. If that is how you treat those you love, Icarus, then I consider myself lucky for opening my eyes!"

The boy looked away in shame, fumbling to put his thoughts in words and justify his actions, even though he knew she was right. Icarus had always said he loved her, that he would protect her, and yet when it mattered most, he had let Tom control her.

"But you still treat the rest well! You hang out with Avery, you talk with Nott and Rosier, in some way, even Riddle. Why do they get a pass, and I do not? That is not fair, Varya," he tried to explain, but the girl only grew more furious.

"Well, you know what, Lestrange? Life is not fucking fair, my magic is literally a barrel that combusts at my own feelings, and I cannot help it that I am disappointed in you more than them, that I thought highly of you. You think I did not know Avery was always raising his knife to my back? That Rosier was digging up dirt on me? I did! That is why it did not hurt when I found out. But you? I expected better from you."

"Then, how do I make it up to you?" he asked as he scrambled to get up, dusting his uniform and looking in Varya's fuming face.

"You do not."

She turned around, trying to tame the rage that was swirling inside of her, and left the boy to stand there despite the guilt that she felt. Varya wished that she was the kind of person that saw both sides of the story, that let herself be rational enough to realize that the boy had a point— she was way harsher on him than the rest.

However, feelings, especially the negative ones, never really made sense, and she could not control them. Humans tended to hold grudges against those that wronged them, more so when they were not expected, and she just happened to fall for the weakness of mortal wrath.

The girl missed the days where she had been stone-cold, so much so that she was not aware of what friendship, love, or trust was. Simpler days, less heartache to deal with. And then Tom Riddle just had to twist her world.

***

The backstage should have been lively— actors should have been running around in panic, the set-designers should have been chasing them, and trying to get them to fit into their costumes, Professor Beery should have been giving motivational speeches. But it was not like that. Everyone was quiet. They all watched the mess of red hair, and tanned hands cause havoc in the dressing room, trashing everything in anger and grief, screaming that she did not want to go on stage, not when her friend had just been murdered.

Elladora threw a chair across the room, almost decapitating Frederick Weasley in the process, but Varya managed to change its path in the last second with a charm. The boy sent her a thankful gaze, and she nodded in understanding.

There was not much any of them could say for fear of being disrespectful to the dead and the grieving. Only Ivy Trouche stood spitefully at the make-up mirror, brushing blonde locks with a treacherous smirk of noncompliance, and Varya could tell it was some sort of revenge for the suspicious letter she had found some time ago.

However, Selwyn did not take to it kindly, and she immediately spat at her roommate, "How can you sit there so poised? Someone died."

"Perhaps, Selwyn, karma has decided to pay you a visit finally," Ivy said over her shoulder, eyes carrying the sort of mischief that was so characteristic of the Knights— but not of her, never of her. Varya parted her lips in astonishment, the girl's insensitiveness catching her off-guard.

"Ivy," the Eastern girl breathed, and with small steps, she reached her friend and put a warning hand on her shoulder, "Do not say such things, not even in anger. We do not speak of the dead in such ways."

Varya had been taught to respect those who had perished before her, as Eastern culture cherished spiritualism to the point of fanaticism, and knew that speaking ill of a soul could easily result in them not being able to pass to the other realm. She only hoped Lopheus Evergreen had had more friends than enemies, and that his journey would be a calm one.

Ivy stiffened, then glanced at Elladora, who was fuming at her previous words, but refused to apologize, and instead sent a small prayer to the departed soul.

Professor Beery entered the room in a hurry, then his face blanched at the disaster, and he immediately instructed everyone to get in their positions, as they only had half an hour before the play would start. Varya could not help but pity the man who was only directing this out of passion and hoped that Hogwarts would welcome the addition of a theatre department.

He called for Varya, and sent her to the back, where Kettleburn and Felix were trying to cage some sort of serpentine being, with thin and pale-gray scales, and Varya frowned at the sight. They had told her that she was to handle worms, not Ashwinders.

"Varya, so glad you are here! Come, come!" the Care for Magical Creatures Professor urged, and Felix gave her a whimsical smile as she looked down at the cage, "Now, I want you to take care of this until the play begins. They are very tricky beings, Ashwinders, and will immediately evade if given a chance. They only live for one hour and do not let it lie any eggs, or we might find ourselves imploding."

"But, Professor, what happened to the worms we had been practicing with?" the girl inquired, unsure of what to do. She had never handled an Ashwinder, and today was certainly not the day to be given such a task. All throughout rehearsal, they had been using a different kind of creature for the second scene.

"Professor Beery thought they did not look intimidating enough, so we opted for this snake and its red eyes. Marvelous, is it not? Now, just cast an Engorgement Charm on it before it goes up." Kettleburn said excitedly. Then, he turned and saw one of his Nifflers try to sneak in a necklace from the crew, before running after it in exasperation. "No! Pickles, put that down right now!"

"Brilliant," smiled Felix, although he was biting back a laugh at the girl's discomfort. "I will leave you to it, then. I must take my seat in the crowd and watch."

Parkin gave Varya a small salute, then pulled the curtains to the sides and made his way to the crowd. The girl stood awkwardly in her spot, unsure of what to do with the creature as she picked up the cage, and when it hissed at her, she hissed right back.

The actors started coming to the stage, and Beery signaled that there were five minutes before the curtain rose, so Varya wished everyone good luck and went to the side, where there was a trap door through which the Ashwinder was supposed to rise on the stage.

She sat on the ground, cage by her side, and let her mind drift to Lopheus Evergreen yet again. It pained her, it truly did, and she wondered what had actually happened to him. Perhaps, sometime during summer, she would be able to visit Sweeden and look for some sort of clue— see if it tied to Grindelwald or had just been an unfortunate accident.

The girl grabbed at the curtain, then peeked through the opening at the crowd, and her eyes immediately found Riddle standing with Icarus and Rosier in the back row. He had a book in his hand, and he was wearing the school's sweater with no dress shirt underneath, revealing his collarbones. His curls were yet again a mess, and he looked like he had stepped out of the shower and just thrown on some clothes, not investing any energy in preparing for the play. Riddle did not need to make an effort, however, as his charm dominated above all else, and Varya felt a twinge at her guts when a few girls behind him giggled as he leaned in his seat.

Almost as if sensing eyes on him, he immediately looked in her direction, and Varya gulped at the way her heart jumped, and pulled the curtain closed to hide her flustered face. Then, slowly, she peeked through again, hoping to catch another glance at the boy without being noticed. Azure clashed against onyx, and her heart swelled when she saw the boy's amused face at her actions, one corner of his lips slightly turned upwards.

A bell sounded through the salon, and Varya scurried backward as the curtain rose for the first act. A fifth-year Hufflepuff by the name of Naramir Borgin was to recite the story as the actors played out the scenes, and Varya took a second to analyze her. She was petite, with tanned skin and long, dark hair that fell in waves, and she had the kind of look to her that stood out amongst the students of Hogwarts. Her voice was what was captivating above all, though, and as she raised her wand to her mouth to amplify her sound, the crowd fell below a hush.

"High on a hill in an enchanted garden, enclosed by tall walls and protected by strong magic, flowed The Fountain of Fair Fortune. Once a year, between the hours of sunrise and sunset on the longest day, a single unfortunate was given the changes to fight their way to the Fountain, bathe in its water, and receive Fair Fortune forevermore." It was as if honey had dripped from Heaven right down her throat, and everyone listened eagerly to the leader of the Toad Choir as she spoke in velvet timbre.

The actors stepped on stage, and even from the side, Varya could see the redness that contoured Selwyn's eyes and the absolute distaste in Ivy's as she glanced at her roommate. The narrator introduced each character, and all of the girls looked as somber as the night— witches that had succumbed to heartbreak, illness, and misfortune. They were impressive, Varya had to admit, and although she knew Elladora's mind was still plagued with grief, the girl did her best to look stricken by malady.

The Eastern witch glanced back at the crowd, hoping to catch sight of Riddle watching the play. To her surprise, Egyptian blue irises were only trained on her, and the girl shifted on her feet as she felt the weight of his gaze, yet her abdomen fluttered with the sensation of razor-winged butterflies. He was so absolutely captivating, and right then and there, the girl felt her apocalyptic love collapse in on itself— her heart belonged to him wholly despite all, and she wanted to curse herself for it. Tom leaned in, almost as if drawn to her, and Varya held his stare until both felt their minds buzz with some sort of feeling neither could describe.

"And so the three witches and the forlorn knight ventured forth into the enchanted garden, where rare herbs, fruit, and flowers grew in abundance on either side of the sunlit paths. They met no obstacle until they reached the foot of the hill on which the Fountain stood. There, however, wrapped around the base of the hill, was a monstrous white Worm, bloated and blind. At their approach, it turned a foul face upon them, and uttered the following words—"

Varya cursed herself for being entirely out of it and hurried to take the caged Ashwinder to the trap, shoving it, then casting a fast growing charm on it right before it raised to the stage. The snake hissed impatiently, and then slithered on the floor before stopping and raising his head to the actors.

The narrator continued to tell the story, but Varya was anxiously bitting at her short nails as she watched the snake start hissing loudly, and Weasley step away from it in worry. The actors had probably not been notified that there had been a change with the creatures, and they exchanged looks with each other in queasiness.

Then, someone dropped something in the crowd, and everyone turned to look at Alphard Black as he was trying to collect his camera from the ground. Ivy, however, was sent over the edge as she noticed that he had been taking a picture of Selwyn, and threw her probes to the ground.

"You little cow! I am quite over your endless meddling with my affairs," she yelled at Elladora, who took a step back at the unexpected outburst. She glanced at the crowd, who had fallen silent and was now watching the exchange.

"Uh— Ivy, this is not the place nor the—"

"No! I could care less. Let everyone see what a little bloodsucking creature you are and how you seduced my boyfriend just because you wanted to get back at me for having the lead role. Get over yourself for once and accept that you will always be second!"

Then, Trouche took out her wand and shot a quick hex to her roommate, who barely managed to block it, and she screamed and fell into the rows of chairs, dress rumbled, and hair flying around. Elladora gripped one of the chairs, then sent her own jinx towards Ivy, who deflected it. Unfortunately, she miscalculated the direction, and it hit Professor Beery full on. He yelped as his head began to grow three times its size, and the commotion agitated the Ashwinder, who started slithering around the room.

Varya stood in her spot petrified, unsure what to do as she watched her roommates engage in a cruel duel, the snake make its way into the screaming crowd, and her Herbology teacher cry as he tried to keep his gigantic head upright.

Then, a loud booming sound resonated through the room, and the students turned to look at the trap door that had just caught fire— the Ashwinder had laid its eggs there, and they had combusted as Varya had been too distracted by Riddle to freeze them in time. The flames quickly engulfed the stage, and the actors screamed bloody murder as they hopped off.

Students began running to the one exit door of the amphitheater, and they pushed and pulled each other to avoid the snake that was still moving around, trying to clasp its fangs at their legs. Then, it started making its way back to the stage, and Varya felt her legs stick to the ground as it approached— almost as if someone had charmed her unable to move.

The girl pulled at her feet, and frantic eyes searched the room that had almost emptied, and she glanced at the fire as it approached her, then fell backward in panic with her soles still glued to the wooden floor of the stage.

"Bloody hell," she screamed as the creature towered over her, fangs shining in the flames' light, and just as they were about to sink in her face, the Ashwinder stopped and turned around. A hissing noise sounded through the room, and the snake seemed to be entranced by it.

Varya looked over the monster's frame and saw Riddle run towards her, mouth scurrying as he muttered a serpentine sound, and he jumped on stage and quickly pulled the girl in his arms, hoisting her up and hopping right back down just as the fire completely covered the stage, taking the Ashwinder with it.

They burst through the door as Albus Dumbledore made his way to the scene and sent a jet of water to the room, and Varya coughed as the smoke irritated her lungs, clinging to Riddle's sweater as the boy carried her toward the end of the hall and let her down gently.

"For a powerful witch, I have sure saved you one too many times from fires and creatures," his voice was raspy, and he smelled of woody smoke as he stood by her, eyes analyzing her face. Tom was as impassive as always, and yet he had done something she did not believe suited his nature. Tom Riddle did not save people; he only let them perish, and yet he had done it for her multiple times.

She made to answer with a snarky remark, but her throat closed from the irritation, and the girl fell in another fit of coughing. Her eyes watered, and she struggled to breathe, so Tom conjured a glass of water and handed it to her. Varya gulped it down greedily, then wiped her mouth dry.

"I never asked you to," the girl mumbled bitterly, and yet she looked up at him with calm eyes.

"So, I should just let you burn alive?"

"Would sure save me much trouble," Varya scoffed, then used the wall as support to get up, "Besides, I am sure you have imagined many ways to kill me before."

"I have."

He blinked at her monotonously.

Varya snorted, "You sure do know how to charm a girl."

"Why would I try to charm you?" Tom asked, hoisting an eyebrow at her statement, and then he saw the hurt flash in the girl's eyes.

"Nevermind."

Varya threw her head back against the wall and breathed in deeply, then looked toward the amphitheater where more and more professors were battling the ongoing fire. Then, with as much calmness as she could, she turned to Riddle.

"Why do you keep doing it, anyway? You did not care enough about me dying to tell me about the Obscurus— none of you did, really. I could have spent the rest of my days not even knowing what I was," Varya said, trying to catch the boy's eyes and see at least some kind of guilt in them. And yet, he remained stoic.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, his voice smooth, "There was a reason we did not tell you— it would have wrecked your body completely. It had to come out slowly, and then we were growing impatient and curious. We thought we might be wrong, so we tried to rile you up. I did not expect you would blow up like that."

"Yeah, right," she scoffed, "Because you were completely thinking about my well-being while doing that. If that was really a concern, none of you should have awakened anything, to begin with. You did it knowing it would kill me."

"It does not have to kill you. I have been doing my own research on this topic for a while, more so after I found about your condition. And after I succeed, you can easily follow my steps, Petrov."

She raised an eyebrow at that, "What are you talking about?"

Tom threw a look over his shoulder, then cleared his throat and looked her in the eye, "Horcruxes."

Varya gasped, and immediately scrambled to get up and away from the sociopath. He could not seriously be implying that she should— no, no, she would never. Or would she? No. The witch might have been as morally gray as the dust that settled on Hogwarts' towers, and yet she was not cruel enough to kill an innocent person so that she could live.

Tom scowled at her reaction. He had expected something different, some kind of gratitude for his plan. Why was she not delighted that he was offering her a chance to join him in immortality? It was not something many would know of, and yet he was openly sharing his secrets with her— the authentic recipe behind unimaginable power. Sure, he might have been doing it because he wanted her to be a force of nature by his side, and Riddle thought she could become a fine weapon in his belt, but should Varya not be grateful?

"I am not killing someone just so I can live," the girl hissed at him, then turned around the corner to head back to the Dungeons. He paced right behind her.

"That is ridiculous. People like you and I are well above the rest, and we deserve to reform the worlds with our idealism and power. It is a small price to pay for what is right," he growled, and his skin buzzed with annoyance at her refusal. He had never had to deal with someone rejecting him.

Varya pivoted on her feet and faced him, finger poking his chest aggressively, and she raised her voice at him, "And what if it is not enough, Riddle? What if you find yourself enjoying it a little too much, and it becomes a nasty, wicked habit? Do you truly think I could live while knowing I am a shell of emptiness and despair? And anyhow, I do not understand why you are so vehement on assuring that I do not perish."

"Because I do not want you to die!" he thundered.

Tom's voice ricocheted off the walls of the empty corridor, and then reticence fell between the two as they processed his words. Their breaths synced in a cloud of confusion and anguish, and the two watched each other with astonishment.

Varya's heart swelled at the words. They might not have meant much coming from other people, those sane enough to realize that not wanting someone to die was a normal thing— but this was Tom Riddle. He was a sociopath, was he not? He did not care if those around him came and went like the stormy Scottish clouds in spring, nor if they withered like roses that had been plucked from warm soil. Tom enjoyed chaos; he relished in the way life never violated entropy and always seemed to crumble in a mess of ash and smoke. But not her. Never her.

Riddle himself was trying to piece together the words he had said, and his thoughts were a jumble of uncertainty and loathing in juxtaposition— the kind of confusion never came easily to him, as he was always in balance with himself. Did he truly not want her to die? Why?

Some part of him tried to convince the boy that it was because she was such a valuable thing to have— the kind of power many do not live to see. And yet, it was not just her Obscurus, but the girl herself that he could not imagine not being around. Varya had to be there; she had to pester him whenever he got too arrogant; she had to put a knife to his throat when he treated those around him with too much venom.

That was not something he could admit to himself, though. So Tom narrowed his eyes at the girl and huffed aggressively before he pushed past her and entered the Common Room without another word.


	44. chapter forty-two

"—BUT FELIX and I really want you to come!" Della whined as she dragged Varya outside the castle, their luggage floating right behind as their shoes stepped against fresh grass and frost.

Varya gazed at her from the corner of her eye, and smiled at the way her friend threw her bag in the carriage with her lips in a pout. She would be going back to her family over spring break, and had invited both Felix and Varya to her house. The Eastern witch had a different kind of plan in mind, and although she could not tell her friend, she expressed her apologies for not being able to attend.

"I wish I could, you know I do. Even so, I have to go back to Romania. There are things I must take care of," she tried to reason, but Della let out a sham cry at her answer.

"Why are you always so cryptic? It is like you are constantly on some secret mission," the Ravenclaw prefect complained, and she hopped into the carriage eagerly, sitting down near the Thestral and petting it. Varya had her reluctance about getting on, but did so nevertheless.

"I simply do not like talking about things that related to my past; you know that."

"Yes, trauma and all— it still sucks, though."

Another bag was thrown in, and they watched Felix hop into the carriage with a smile on his face that crinkled his eyes. He had always been such a happy boy, and intended to enjoy life at its fullest capability. He was the right mixture between classy and entertaining and knew how to carry himself with a surreal appeal.

"Look, whom I found wandering around— thought he might want to join us."

Varya turned to look at Renold Rosier as he flashed her a charming smile before sliding in the carriage next to her. The girl looked away— she was still hurt by what he had been hiding regardless of their intention of eventually saving her. He nudged her with his shoulder, then leaned forward to look at her face as she hid it behind a curtain of black hair.

"Still upset, I see," he quipped, then pulled something out of his backpack and handed it to her, "This might help."

Varya eyed the flask of fire whisky and contemplated her choices— she could drink it, and it might help her endure the painful ride that was to come, or she could refuse and deal with things head-on.

The girl grabbed the flask and sipped on it eagerly, relishing in the way it burned her throat and left an odd after-taste in her mouth. Then, the boy took a swing himself before passing it on to Felix, who hoisted an eyebrow.

"Is it not careless to be handling alcohol on school property around your Head-Boy?"

Rosier clicked his tongue against his cheek, then looked at the castle that was retreating as the Thestral pulled them through the spring scenery. The hum of nature was everpresent, and the birds chirped away the early morning. The pleasant sun fell over the castle's stone walls, and a few students were standing by the windows and watching the tumult of carriages as they passed the horizon. Ren turned his head and gave a lopsided smirk, then hoisted his eyebrows before downing another gulp of liquid.

"We are no longer on school grounds, Parkin."

Felix laughed, then accepted the flask and took a sip, face scrunching in disgust as he felt the taste. Varya had never seen the boy drink much, and she assumed this newfound desire to do so as part of his "experience everything before leaving" agenda.

"What are you doing over the break, Rosier?" asked Della politely, trying to strike a conversation with the boy she did not quite know.

"I am going to London; I have a few tasks to carry out there. Then, I do not know. I was thinking of spending my second week in France, but I do not feel like dealing with my family— might just crash at Nott's place," he said as he took another sip from his flask, and his words still carried surreal clarity despite all.

By the time they reached the train, Varya was thoroughly buzzed, and was clinging onto Rosier for dear life in a mess of giggles and missed steps. The boy kept giving her amused looks— he had long outgrown the effects of alcohol, and would have to keep drinking in order to reach that level of tipsiness.

At her constant insisting, the boy ended up joining their compartment, and he found himself enjoying the company of the power trio, laughing at the way Varya was babbling nonsensical things about her classwork, Felix was scolding Della for only bringing sweets on the train and not food, and Della kept sneaking in chocolate bites when he was not looking.

"You know what," mumbled Varya from her seat, head squished against the window as sluggish eyes wandered between the other three. "I think I should find Riddle; I think I want to see him."

"Oh, Merlin," mumbled Della, "Varya, I do not think you should—"

She was out the door and stumbling in the hallway. The witch waved a hand in front of her face, trying to control her expression into something close to broodiness. Yes, just like that. She stared at her deep frown in the reflection of the glass. Yes, that is just how Tom always looked.

Varya walked along the train wagons until she reached the end, knowing he would be in there. Perhaps, he would be sitting with the rest of the knights, making evil schemes about how to conquer the world, or torturing each other's pets for fun. She did not even knock on the door, she simply barged in, and Tom's eyes snapped to her in astonishment.

He was alone, feet up on the train's seat, and stretched in front of him as he was leaning his back against the wall, and he was wearing casual clothes now. He had put on a dress shirt made out of a thicker material, and had a nice pair of pants that fit him well. Tom's hands were holding a book, and for the first time, it was not a textbook.

"What are you reading?" The Eastern witch asked as she plopped herself on the opposite seat. Her mind spun, and yet she smiled at the boy.

Tom narrowed his eyes, but his lip twitched upward, "Will Durant, The Story of Philosophy," he answered, then trained his eyes on the book.

"Why are you reading muggle philosophy?"

"It helps me understand what I am conquering— the mind is a fragile thing, and understanding behavior and mannerism is half of the task. Once you can easily figure out how a person works, you know how to get them to break."

But that was not all. Tom Riddle had always been a master of deceit, and he wore many masks that he interchanged according to circumstances. And yet, how could the boy know how to materialize such emotions and charm out of the void of his soul?

Imitation. Mimicry. Tom read books not only for the knowledge, but also as a source of scheming and manipulation. Sometimes, he endured torturous pages of foolishness only to be able to make a note of the mannerism people used in situations, and he would try to imitate their emotions and actions. That is why many thought him to be such a surreal boy— because he was not real; he was an amalgam of characteristics he had copied from his studies.

"I assume by your current state that you have been spending some time with Rosier."

"You would be correct," Varya said, and then she threw her legs underneath her, making sure to place her skirt well. "But then I thought I should see you."

"Why?" He raised an eyebrow at her, and gave her the kind of look that made her legs go weak.

Varya was at a loss of words, unsure what to tell the boy. Even in her intoxicated state, she knew she was nearing dangerous ground, and yet her heart beast faster as he looked at her with those stupid azure inquisitive eyes, and for a moment, she just wanted to admit everything to him.

"I do not know."

She never really did those days.

They looked at each other, and he regarded her for a second in a way he had not before. Her obsidian eyes were trailing the ceiling, and melon-pink lips were parted in the slightest hint of wonder— she was very much drunk, and yet part of him enjoyed seeing her as carefree. The girl had been getting more somber by the day since she had found of her predicament, and he immensely enjoyed it when she had fight in her.

Riddle closed his book and put it to the side, then swung his feet off of the train couch and leaned as he rested his elbows on his knees. He tilted his head, analyzing her with the kind of gaze that made her know she was being scrutinized.

"What?" she asked, pushing herself in the couch more. Had he always been this intimidating?

Varya was the kind of beauty that not many possessed, Tom realized. She was delicate, frail, and yet her eyes always held such defiance that she moved like a storm against a deserted coast. There was something so terribly wicked about her, but not in the usual way. Perhaps it was the Obscurus shining through translucent skin, but the boy was inclined to believe it was her own spirit that rivaled the moonlight.

"You look nice today."

Oh, bloody Hell. Her heart went insane at that, and she felt like bashing her head against the train wagon.

"Anyhow," Tom says, and he breaks their stare before his mouth opens again, and he says something else that he should not, "We are getting off at the London station, then we take the Floo Network. We will be spending a night in Paris; Lestrange could not use his brain to get us train tickets that arrange well, so we have to wait a few hours. Then, we head straight to Albania. No detours."

Her brain somewhat processed that, and yet she knew everything would be out of her mind by sundown. All Varya could care about at that moment was the way the tangerine rays fell on his pale face, and the way he scrunched his nose when they got in his ocean-deep eyes, making the pools of dark blue stand out more. Tom's eyes had always been fascinating, a mixture of spectral marine with the slightest hint of algae, and yet they were glossed over with the glow of madness.

They sat in silence for a while, and yet it did not feel strained. It was never awkward with the two of them, and Varya found some comfort in his presence, as one would around those one yearns for. She stole fugitive glances at him, as he had gone back to reading his book, and she could have sworn Tom's eyes were trained on her from time to time.

"What did they do to you...there?" he asked suddenly, and doubt tangled around his vocal cords. Tom knew that the girl was still sensitive over the project, but his curiosity was astronomical, and the boy wanted to know.

Varya had stopped breathing, and her eyes scanned the compartment for nothing in particular as she closed in on herself. Her irises turned darker, and she looked at him with pain, "Bad things. Very bad things."

He felt his wrath bubble underneath. For the first time, not at her, but at the way her eyes carried shadowy grief, and he opened his mouth to say something, but the girl continued.

"You know what the worst thing is? They took away not only the bad memories— the torture, the abuse. They also made all of the happy ones vanish, and replaced them with illusions that never quite made sense, and yet I accepted blissfully because it had been the only source of comfort I had had," she breathed, and Tom would have thought the girl would cry. Instead, she had fury in her features, "I had people I cared about there, and they took away my right to grieve them, to get accustomed to the thought of losing them. Now, it all comes back, and I am experiencing everything over again. And it is killing me. I do not know how to make sense of everything, and my whole body just hurts all the time— I do not expect you to get it, though."

He did not. Tom could not understand how someone else's death could affect her this much. Lopheus Evergreen had just died, and yet he was going on with his day just like before. Perhaps, if he genuinely lost someone he cared for, he would feel the pain. Nevertheless, he cared for nobody but himself.

"So that is how they trapped the Obscurus? By taking away the feelings that it clung to?"

Disappointment pilled in her guts as she realized that yet again, Tom Riddle only cared about one thing— her power. Varya wanted to laugh at herself for believing otherwise for a second, for being so foolish into thinking that anything had changed. However, it had, because a kiss, regardless of what fueled it, always loomed over those who engaged in it.

"Yes," she answered, avoiding his gaze. "That is why whenever you pushed me over the edge, it broke through and drove me mad. Parasites like tormenting their hosts, do they not?"

Tom hummed in approval, fascinated by the notion, and then he noticed her fidgety state and frowned. What was upsetting her? He never quite seemed to understand what fueled her emotions, because where he was filled with apathy, the witch let herself be dominated by emotions.

Varya laid down on the train seat, hand underneath her head, and she closed her eyes as everything spun around her. God, she had forgotten how much alcohol messed with her mind. The witch wanted to sleep in an attempt to get Tom to stop talking to her, and yet she found herself twisting from side to side restlessly.

"Would you stop that? I cannot read if you keep distracting me."

She opened one eye to look at the boy, who was not holding his book again, and yet he was only looking at her, "I cannot sleep."

"That sounds unpleasant, but not my concern."

Varya huffed, and turned to lie on her back and stare at the ceiling with a frown etched on her expression. She could not understand why the boy was so recalcitrant at all times.

" _Science tells us how to heal and how to kill; it reduces the death rate in retail and then kills us wholesale in war; but only wisdom—desire coordinated in the light of all experience—can tell us when to heal and when to kill,"_ he began reading out loud, and when Varya shot him a look of astonishment, he raised an eyebrow, "You said you could not sleep. Perhaps, this will help— it is ridiculous, really. Some of it is extremely idealistic of humans. It does help you understand how those around you function, though."

Varya gave him a smile, and her abdomen fluttered as she realized that this was his way of trying to help her— have her listen to his reading. His voice had always been calming, and so she told him to proceed, then placed her head back down on her hands and closed her eyes. She fell asleep to Tom Riddle's voice.

***

He had been unequivocal with her— Varya was to wait on the platform for him until the train emptied, as nobody could see them leaving together or questions would arise. The girl found him to be extremely dramatic in his requests, and yet part of her understood the need for secrecy. She would not know how to answer if Felix asked what was going on.

Maxwell Nott ran to her, Avery trailing right behind, and he waved a set of tickets in his hand. Initially, it was supposed to be Lestrange that would deliver them, and yet the boy was keeping his distance from the girl after their most recent conversation.

Nott was wearing a funny-looking hat on his head, and it was slightly hanging off and touching one of his ears as he struggled to carry his bag of textbooks forward. He did not trust magic to bring it around, and preferred to have them on him at all times. His sandy hair was ruffled underneath, and his forest eyes were as focused as always.

"There you go," he wheezed as he handed her the tickets, "Everything is set; all you have to do is say your name is Claudette Rosier— Ren said that is his cousin or something, and it is best you keep your name hidden."

He did not say it, but the girl understood. It would be her first time she would be leaving Hogwarts after Grindelwald had become a significant threat, and although they still had no proof Lopheus Evergreen had been targeted, they all considered him proof of what was about to come.

"You have the knife and belt, yeah?" asked Avery as he stood in front of her, arms crossed and features pulled in a frown. Once, she had thought him to be extraordinarily evasive and secluded. However, the witch had discovered it was quite the contrary— he made himself appear as such only because of his tendencies. Varya nodded, "Good, keep it close. I have told this to Riddle as well, but he will not listen. My family is spread throughout Europe, and they have all told me that the Ministries across the land are trying to handle all of the attacks."

"I am sure we can handle it, but thank you."

Riddle came out of the train in his black spring coat, and he had a scarf wrapped around his neck that swayed in the wind as he walked toward them with his hands in his pockets. He nodded towards the two boys, who bowed their head swiftly before scrambling to the car that was waiting for them outside of the train station.

"Ready?" asked Tom as he grabbed a trolley and moved their luggage on it. He extended his elbow to her in a gallant gesture, and the girl let her fingers cling to his hand. Varya's head was slightly pounding from the drinks, and yet when she touched him, all seemed to fall into place.

They walked down the station's platform and passed through the wall, then went outside of the station and called for a cab. The driver immediately helped them put their bags in the trunk, and Tom opened the door for Varya before sliding in next to her.

"—attacks continue on the border of Switzerland, and many believe that the peculiar happenings are a new intimidation tactic by Hitler's resistance. With Private Reginald's disappearance in the Alps, the British army assures that they have nothing to do with the disappearing children in the village and that it is only propaganda."

"Turn that up, please," Tom leaned over and told the driver, then gave Varya a knowing look.

"The stationed unit reports that after discovering the soldier's body in the cave, which they continuously shot at, surrounded by half-eaten children, they have assumed this to be some sort of dementia induced cannibalism. More reports will follow on the incident as the messages rely on this station."

Varya's whole body chilled with repulsion at the image that had formed in her head, and she could even see some sort of disturbance in Tom's impassive features. She cast a quick charm around them and made the driver utterly oblivious to their conversation.

"You remember when I asked Nott to look into those books I needed?" Varya inquired, and when Tom nodded in affirmation, she continued, "A long time ago, I was dragged in the Forbidden Forest by some sort of creature— a mavka. And it told me, or threatened me, about this diabolical force coming to destroy everything. Then that ghost in the shack said the same thing. Ever since, I have been looking into reports of attacks and trying to piece it together."

"Why are you telling me this now?" asked the boy, who had always been wondering about the situation that had happened in December, and why the girl wanted to know so many things about magical creatures. He had tried getting it out of her multiple times, and yet she never budged.

Varya shrugged, then considered it for a moment, "I think at this point you might as well know, and besides, it is time we stop competing against each other and realize that Grindelwald is a threat to both of us. Perhaps, if we work together, we have a better chance of coming out on the other side without too many scratches."

Tom looked at her as she leaned back in the seat, and the scenery of dreary London flashed behind her at a fast rate, contrasting with her green overcoat and face blazed by the fire whisky. The witch was more lucid now, and yet her face still reddened as the enzymes in her body tried to break down the alcohol.

He did not trust people, not in the slightest, and there was definitely reluctance in accepting her waving white flag as they had both been at each other's throats ever since the beginning. Nevertheless, Riddle acknowledged her in ways he did not for other people. It had taken a near-death experience, but the girl had earned his respect. After all, not many people could best him, let alone half of his Knight.

And then there had been the kiss— he was still angry at himself for succumbing to her apparent seduction plan, and Tom could not understand what the girl could have gained from making him act like that. In his mind, it all seemed to be part of some sophisticated plan of manipulating him, as the wizard could not imagine anyone ever genuinely loving him.

"Very well," he mumbled, looking at his watch. They had to go to the Floo Network in Diagon Alley soon, "And what do you make of this? You think it is the work of a creature?"

"Ghouls," she explained, "Originated in the Middle East and extended to Europe in the eighteen hundreds, and they go by various names. They are similar to wendigos, except those are of Canadian origins. Not the most delightful, they disguise themselves as humans and prey on children; they are cannibals, and often appear when humans feast on flesh. I am assuming the soldier did just that, and then went crazy. Alternatively, perhaps, an already existing ghoul took his shape and attracted the children into the woods."

"Is Grindelwald behind this?"

"Yes," she started, "And no. You remember how I told you that creatures could easily be controlled or bought using negative emotions as payment? Well, I think he is doing that somehow, but not through him. The souls he has enlisted— they are wicked in ways you cannot imagine, and he needs someone more macabre for that."

Tom was looking at her with a newfound admiration as she talked about something she was so familiar with, and yet he was not. He did not know many people that excelled at things that he did not, and it only made him thirstier for knowledge.

The car stopped suddenly, and Varya released the charm as the driver turned to the two, "We have arrived."

They got out steadily, and as they made their way to Diagon Alley, heads turned to look at the two poised students, who were dressed in beautiful attire and seemed to absorb every bit of darkness to them. Just as they were about to head toward the brick wall, someone called out Varya's name.

"Well, look who it is! Pleasure, as always," said William cheekily as he strode over to the pair, lips turned in a pleasant smile as he bowed before the two. "'ave not met you before, sir! You do look familiar, though— oh! Are you not from that orphanage down the street that burned last week? Wool's? Pity to 'ear that, mate."

Varya threw a quick glance at Tom, who was growing restless due to Parker's questioning, and her heart slummed at the thought that the boy might have had something to do with it.

"Burned down?" inquired Varya, despite Riddle trying to pull her away from the boy and on with their way. "How?"

"Oh, nobody knows, really...they suspect a malfunction with the central system, but 'ave not quite figured it out. It 'appened over the weekend too. Poor children, many did not make it out."

William took down his hat in respect as he made a cross with his fingers over his chest, then placed it back on and looked at Varya. The girl was trying to keep her composure, and yet her blood boiled at the thought of Riddle being at fault. She had not seen him over the weekend, that was true, and she was sure the boy knew of ways to evade Hogwarts if needed. After all, all he had to do was take one of the secret passages to Hogsmade's train station, and he would disappear into the night.

She looked at him and saw it— not guilt, not secrecy. He was proud. He was proud of having burned a whole building down, and killing multiple children out of spite. Perhaps he had not had the most comfortable childhood, and Varya knew he had been mistreated and outcasted, but some part of her had hoped Riddle had begun to change his course of action.

No, he was only growing darker because of her.

Her mind went to the memory Dumbledore had shown her in August, and Varya stiffened as she realized that the future might still be gloomy and macabre for Tom Riddle. But she had to stop him, no matter what the cost was, and had to stay by his side and make sure that even as he rose to power, he would only be fueled by his ideals and not his fascination with death.

The girl turned to William, and before he could even blink, she Obliviated any memory the boy would have of Tom. It was best he was not remembered amongst the Londonese streets, lest someone ended up connecting the dots. Dumbledore would surely start questioning the boy. Then, she dragged Riddle to Diagon Alley, leaving poor Parker behind in a state of confusion.

"You did it."

"I did not," he lied so smoothly it almost sounded like the truth, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed him. She knew his vicious side too well.

"Do not insult my intelligence by thinking I cannot see straight through your lies," she sighed, and yet could not bring herself to resent the man. After all, she would burn down Scholomance just as well, "Let us just go; we do not have time for your temper tantrums right now."

Riddle smirked, and they made their way to the building that they would take the Floo Network from, before disappearing in a burst of green flames.

***

Paris had changed under the nazi occupation. It was no longer the blooming city of romance, nor did the streets vibrate with melodious songs that made the heart tingle. Now, they rumbled as the machinery of war paraded the concrete boulevards, trying to squish the resistance from gaining momentum. The government had fallen almost three years ago, and now few cars circulated as the gas had been rationed. Even so, Lestrange had managed to secure them transportation around the capital, as he knew that traveling by foot in such a barrel of powder would be dangerous for the two students.

The hotel they were staying at was as extravagant as times allowed, and that meant they had all meals included, and the rooms were decorated in fine silk and paintings. It almost made Varya sick to the stomach how some socialites such as the Rosier and Lestrange family allowed themselves to relish in gluttony and luxury during such hard times, where food itself had been reduced by war.

In later years, historians would describe the biggest shock of fallen France as the "superficial normality of wartime Paris," and the way that the city still shined like a diamond amongst coal. There was some sense of normality to it, and yet the air felt so different from Scotland, even England.

Varya's room was in the same complex as Tom's, and they shared common living space and bathroom, but a long hallway separated the two chambers. As soon as they had arrived at their reservation, Riddle had immediately locked himself in the room doing Merlin-knows-what, and the girl had taken her time in exploring the apartment.

It had a balcony that overlooked Notre-Dame Cathedral in all of its beauty, and the girl sighed dreamily as she stood at the small dainty table in her obsidian dress, hair blowing in the Parisian wind. Lestrange had left them some treats, and she fancied herself a glass of wine as she overlooked the city.

"Back to drinking, already?"

She turned to look at Riddle, who stood at the balcony entrance, shoulder against the doorframe, and had something similar to a map in his hand. Twilight rays fell on his face in celestial fire, and his lips were pulled in a coy smirk as his eyes bared the semblance of mild amusement.

A cascade of smoke rippled his refined features as he carried his usual devious attribute like a crown on his head, and perhaps Tom Riddle was noble in his own way— a monarch of absolute despair and anguish. But it pleased her nevertheless, and while others might have seen chiseled features of the aristocracy and the mannerism of a posh man, Varya found she quite like the redness of devilry in his eyes.

Tom had rolled his sleeves upwards, and had loosened his collar and abandoned his ever-present tie— no need to play pretend behind close doors. His hair was still stilled as neatly as always, and yet the wind ruffled at the few curls that had broken through during the day, and when he saw across her at the table, one of them fell in his eye. Varya drank her wine to prevent herself from reaching out.

"If I am to be in your presence for so long, I find it only fitting that I let my nerves swim in poison," she quipped, then offered to pour him a glass, but the boy refused.

"I make you nervous?"

She tilted her head in bemusement at his straightforwardness and wondered when the boy had gotten so comfortable with asking such questions, "Not the good kind, dear."

"That would be boring, would it now?" Varya had never seen his eyes twinkle with so much challenge and amusement, and she wondered if this was Tom Riddle finally letting his guard down around someone.

A scream resonated through the plaza below, and they both looked at the man that was now being dragged by the police. However, he did not seem to be at fault, and the girl spotted his daughter crying as she watched her father being carried away. Collectors, most probably. Criminal activity had increased since the Germans had occupied the city, and something told Varya that the men in uniform had fallen prey to the black market too, and had started accepting offers of harassment from the druglords of the city.

How ironic that sometimes those who wore the badges that symbolized protection succumbed to corruption and turned weapons against civilians— such scum of Earth they were, with a mind so easily swayed by power and greed.

Varya flicked a finger in their direction, and watched as one of the cops fell flat on his face, attracting the attention of the other one and giving the father enough time to grab his daughter and run between the buildings of Paris.

Tom hoisted an eyebrow, "Now, why would you do that? He was obviously a muggle."

"A muggle, not a muggle— at the end of the day, I prefer to fight against those who use their power to harass the innocent. After all, is that not your goal? Fight against corruption in the wizarding world?" the witch asked, then narrowed her eyes at the sky as she noticed the storming clouds approach, "Say— would you enjoy dinner right now? The alcohol is less enjoyable on an empty stomach, makes me queasy."

Tom looked at the watch on his hand, then nodded and got up from his seat. He opened the door for her, and they walked downstairs to the reception. Varya stood in the hallway as the boy asked for directions to a restaurant that would serve dinner at such hours. Her eyes trailed the pictures on the walls— some were muggle celebrities attending parties in the ballroom of the building; some were founders of the chain as they shook hands on the inauguration. All dated years ago, when city life was still booming.

The wizard came back to her, and she grabbed on his arm as they walked down the boulevard, passing soldiers and citizens alike, and yet the girl kept her eyes forward and tried not to attract attention.

The restaurant was in a secluded part of the city, somewhere further from the german centers, and the music still sounded through the streets as Varya passed various shops. She smiled at the way Tom let his eyes linger on the architecture, and of course, she should have known he would be fascinated by the Parisian allure just as she was.

"I always thought the Renaissance to be a wonderful period of time," he said eventually as they stopped at the restaurant, and the waiter led them to a table outside in the gardens. The perfume of blooming flowers danced in the air as a violinist played quietly in the corner.

The girl snorted, "Of course— rebirth. You would find that fascinating, would you not?"

Riddle hoisted an eyebrow at the jab, an allusion to his plan for immortality, "It had more to do with the architecture, but I guess you are not wrong either. Except I do not want rebirth, I want immortality. Rebirth implies dying."

"What is your obsession with death?"

"It is ignominious, a weakness saved for muggles and weak minds. I am not alike to them— why not take the opportunity to expand your universe and mind infinitely by allowing yourself to defy nature's biggest obstacle. I have the means to do it if I desire, so why would I not do it?"

"Fate requires balance," Varya said as she looked him in the eyes, "There is always a price to pay for things like this. For necromancy, whatever you bring back no longer resembles the person that was lost. They are cold, empty, and many documented accounts say that those revived often experience existential paradox—they go mad and either cannot accept that they are dead or that they are alive."

"The book on Horcruxes never said anything about secondary-effects—"

"That does not mean they do not exist," the girl answered, thinking of the reptilian face that the boy would transfigure too, and of the way he had let a teenage boy best him. That was not the Tom Riddle that was standing in front of her right now, "How many do you want to make?"

He stilled for a second, unsure of what to say, "Six."

"Seven with yourself, then."

"One for each Knight to safe-guard," he finally revealed. "That is one of the reasons I recruited each of them. Six Horcruxes, six knights. With me, always seven. It is my preferred number."

"I thought you recruited me as well, though?" the girl suddenly answered, remembering the conversation that had had in the forest before they had almost killed each other.

Tom had forgotten about that; it seemed. Furthermore, as he looked at her, he realized something ticked him the wrong way about it. It was almost as if an external force had unsettled his plan, and although he could not explain the meaning behind his paranoia, it was eating at his brain.

He did not know, however, that Varya was always meant to be the failure of his empire, the one thing that would shatter his perfect illusion.

She was the eighth deadly sin, which had been forgotten by history— despondency—the one who brought despair, hopelessness, and doubt in fate. Varya Petrov had always been a girl that was ruled by instinct, and her existence itself had taught her never to put her fate in anything, but there was more to it than that.

Varya would be the one to bring this sin into their lives, to make them doubt their faith in their Lord, and to eventually lead to the dissolution of their attachments to Tom Riddle. She had once wondered if she would be Tom Riddle's downfall or his savior.

_Perhaps, one came with the other._


	45. chapter forty-three

THEIR WALK BACK to the complex had been a quiet one— the kind of tension that was welcome, and yet thoughtful. Tom had never answered her question, as it seemed that the realization that he had let another person in his circle had rattled him beyond comprehension, and while it did amuse Varya, it also worried her.

He was reticent and did not even speak up when they passed by a garden of flowers, and Varya made it whither out of irritation. Riddle did not scold her for her waste of magic, and she found that odd.

When they reached the living room, the boy only shut himself in his room, and the girl stood in the common area perplexed. Had she said something wrong? It seemed that for the first time in a while, the two were spending time together without arguing, and yet Riddle had once again secluded himself.

The balcony doors were still open, and she looked at the storm that approached. Varya made her way outside and gripped the balustrade, eyes trained on the rapacious lightning, the way in engulfed the horizon in a network of light. Thunder followed closely, a sound that vibrated through the air, a sign that the storm itself was close. The rain started pouring in, hitting the balcony's marble with plaintive drops, and the girl let the drizzle hit her flesh as she closed her eyes and felt the spring cascade on her skin.

A hand reached out to her, and lightning struck again a few blocks down. She was not sure if it was Tom's fingers on her arm or the boastful thunder that made her shudder, but when the witch turned around to meet chaotic pupils that darted to every corner of her face and drowned in the color of the Mediterranean Sea — she thought she might have a clue.

"Yes?" she inquired, voice amplified as she tried to speak over the sonorous dripping from the sky's granite. Tom moved his lips, but Varya did not really hear much, "Let us go inside; I cannot hear you."

Nevertheless, he grabbed her hand and pulled her right back, making them both stand in the rain as it poured over them. His shirt had started sticking to his skin, and his curls fell in damp strands over his face as he continued to look at her. His eyes carried some conflict, and he kept pressing his lips almost as if he was irritated by something.

Varya looked up at the sky and scrunched her nose as she felt the chill settle in her bones, and her own hair had slicked back and started sticking to her face. This was ridiculous; what was he doing?

"What is it?"

"You are not part of the Knights," Riddle's voice was final, and the girl hoisted an eyebrow.

"All right, fine, I never accepted it anyway," she scoffed at his ridiculousness. Was this what was bothering him?

"But you are part of this, just not as a follower. You are an essential variable, and it would be an insult to your intellect to place you in the same ranks as them. Petrov, you have power and knowledge that some of them could never dream of, and you need to start acting upon it," Riddle explained with a stoic stare, and Varya felt her breath hitch.

Tom rarely complimented her— he mostly called her stupid and useless, which contradicted the fact that the boy wanted her to fight alongside him in whatever war he was going to start. The witch had always known that he found her valuable, and yet it pleased her to hear it from his own mouth.

"Oh, a round of applause! Riddle finally admits that he does, after all, need me!"

She threw her head back in a hearty laugh, face scrunching in utter amusement, and Tom frowned at the way his heart sped up. He looked down at it, then placed a hand over his chest in confusion, trying to calm it down. His body was reacting to the girl, and as the rain continued to fall down over them, the boy felt cold. He did not like that.

So Tom reached out to Varya, and pulled her close until her body was against his, and then grabbed at her wet hair to make her look in his eyes. The girl stilled as she felt the way their damp clothes clung to each other, and the boy lowered his head until his lips were hovering over hers.

"I will never need anyone, Petrov," Riddle muttered, and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he tried to focus on the feeling in his chest. It was harsher now, and his skin burned where it touched hers. "The sooner you realize that dependency is toxic, the sooner you achieve greatness. Nobody needs you, and you do not need someone else, either. We are self-reliant beings, and opportunistic. The people we surround ourselves with are the best options at the time, and yet they can easily be replaced if necessary."

"That is cynical," the Eastern witch deadpanned, and her eyes analyzed the boy as he stood there, eyes closed in tranquility, with droplets falling down and trailing his jawline. She reached out, and let one slide on her finger, "There is nothing wrong with needing people, Riddle. It is not a weakness. As a matter of fact, few are brave enough to recognize that they are not all-powerful. Those with minds strong enough to accept that humans are collective beings will achieve greatness."

"And who do you need, Varya?"

Tom Riddle's eyes had always been a tumultuous sea, an inferno of waves and conflict, and yet now, she saw calmness settle over them. There were few moments of peace that the boy allowed himself, and this was one of them.

"I need you to let me go back inside. We are literally standing in the rain, and as much as I appreciate your dramaticism, I do not want to go to Albania with a cold," the girl quipped nervously, trying to evade the question as pupils darted everywhere except the boy, but when Varya tried to free herself from his hold, he only pushed her back.

"What do you want?"

Her chest rose and fell in waves of anxiousness, and the witch bit her lip to hold herself from admitting that Tom was the one whom her heart yearned for. And yet, her mind had been in shambles for months, and Varya's resolve had crumbled to a fraction of what it had once been.

"I want you to kiss me."

Tom crashed his lips against hers, hands clinging for dear life as he explored the newfound sensation with intrigue, and wondered to what extent it would go to. He pushed her up against the table, and Varya's hands gripped his wet clothes and hair as he placed himself right between her legs. It was a different kind of feeling than their previous kiss— slower, exploratory, sensual.

A slow hand trailed up the girl's thighs, and then he parted her legs easily as he maneuvered her to sit right in front of him. Her dress was long, and it reached her knees, so Tom lifted it gradually without detaching his lips from hers. His hands went up to her neck, and he pulled her closer to press himself against her fully.

Varya whined in his mouth, then made to detach herself from him, realizing that her underwear was fully visible, "Tom, we are on the balcony—"

His mouth went directly to one of her breasts, and he bit down on her flesh as his hand pulled at the lace with need, and he let one digit trail the inner part of her upper thigh, making her back arch as she trembled underneath his touch. Then, he unzipped the back of her dress, exposing frail shoulders to the coldness of the rain, and Varya looked around in panic at the neighboring buildings, begging that nobody was watching them. She bit back a moan as the boy ripped the dress off of her upper body, and then trailed rough hands over the cups of her bra and gripped fiercely.

Tom's mind had been plagued with want for days, and as much as he had tried to shut his brain off, the girl had been driving him insane. It was as if she had opened Pandora's box on the day of their previous encounter, and had let a new desire surface. It drove him mad, to the point where he could not be around her for more than a few minutes and keep composure.

He was a boy, and as emotionless as he could be, his body still reacted to the touch of a woman.

His hand moved earthward, and he frowned when he felt leather where her hip was supposed to be. The boy glanced downward, and then a sinister smile covered his features. Before the girl could even realize, the tip of a blade was forcing her chin upwards, and her throat constricted at the odious effervescence in her abdomen— it thrilled her.

"Now, where did you get this from?" he mumbled on her ear, then breathed hotly against it, making the hair on skin cover in goosebumps. The rain had quiet down a little, and Tom could hear her breath hitch when he pressed the cold dagger against her soft thigh, trailing it up and down slowly.

"Avery," Varya said decisively, almost trying to rile him up, and it worked as his eyes grew darker, and he growled as he made a small incision near her hip. His fiendish eyes darted to it, and he watched as her dark blood blended with the drops of rain, a trail of melon-pink down her thigh, and despite the hiss of pain, her hips moved eagerly against his leg.

"Is that so?" he purred, then clicked his tongue as he let his head fall downward, trailing his lips over her shoulder. His velvety lips placed a soft kiss, and then his tongue swirled in the spot they had touched. Then, Tom used the dagger to cut the rest of her dress away.

The rain had stopped pouring, and he lifted his head to look up at the sky, allowing time for the girl to push her mouth underneath his jaw and bite down on it, before sucking eagerly as his hands gripped her sides and his eyes closed in pleasure. The dark pulsation of despair transfigured between the two, and her shadows laid soft touches against his body as she let her deepest desire slip through the cracks of senselessness and resolve, a welcoming to her obscurity to unravel.

Red flashes of need pulsed against his skin as she trailed down, and then with the hand of a woman that could tempt and destroy the minds of the crudest Roman rulers of times, she led his firm hand between her legs, which she had hyperextended as an invitation to immorality.

Her body was made of the breeze and the stars, and it felt as if he was touching the skin of some sort of phantom, the way it shone as the first rays of moonlight dipped on translucence, and his fingers glided over her middle in circular, slow motions, earning a spectrum of small whimpers. His finger continued circling her soft spot as he pressed slow kisses to her neck before biting down on it.

The blade was still in his hand, and the crimson had stopped pooling from the wound, so he placed it against her stomach, and dragged it in the shape of constellations right back at her neck and made midnight eyes gaze at him with lunar clarity. Their breaths stilled, each entranced by the other's devotion, and then he let the dagger fall to the side, and it clinked against white marble with a metallic tinkle.

The wind of the night was cold enough to buzz her skin, and yet it flushed rogue as Tom kneeled before her, then placed his lips against her in a spectacle of sparks and deprivation, moving slow, deliberately. She grabbed his hair, and her back arched as pleasure swam in her vision and pooled in the deepest parts of her broken mind, and she used it to momentarily mend everything together in a portrait that showed one thing— him.

Then, his tongue swirled, and the witch spluttered and bit down on her hand to stop the scream ripple through twilight's hours with mindless ecstasy and bliss, and her hips moved against his face in vibrance of need. She moved hips in circular motions against his mouth as he gripped her back and pulled her flush against his face, moaning against her warmth and sending vibrations through Varya's body.

The velvet darkness of nighttime covered them in a blanket of fogginess and hid them from the wandering eye, and yet neither cared nor minded the open scenery as the boy continued to press his tongue against hotness. One hand gripped her hip, and then his mouth pushed harder against her, lips and tongue and tongue and lips. He brought down a hand and trailed the upper part, then dragged it down against the outer edges of her galaxy before sliding it right in and pushing it hard until he felt flesh against his fingertip, and her scream resonated through the night, shattering the tranquility of the darkness.

His motions were swift, and yet she felt the slight tremble of a boy who was unsure in his movement, and Varya found it enthralling how he was trying to explore on his own, always eager for knowledge, regardless of the matter.

His fingers made her head spin like a planet rotating around its own axis with nebular pleasure, and when she closed her eyes, she saw Jupiter's moons orbiting aimlessly. Like the explosion of a supernova, she felt the tightness in her lower abdomen build up and tasted stardust on her tongue as Tom continued moving plum lips against her, then swirled his tongue on her bundle of nerves. His hand trailed up her body, and he scratched at the skin on her stomach, mixing the pain and pleasure in a swirl of heightened senses. She found herself indulging in mindless sabaism as he was the whole cosmos.

Then, Riddle came back up and kissed her eagerly, hand still palming her lower region, alternating between applying just the right pressure and sliding long digits with dexterity. She had never quite noticed how beautiful his hands were, how the veins glistened of emerald against pale skin, almost an admittance of the serpentinous lineage, and at that moment, he breathed of power and dominance as she squirmed underneath his hold. Tom moved his fingers in and out of her faster, and pulled on her hair harshly so she would meet his eyes and he could see the pleasure drip from her features.

His lips pulled up in a nonchalant smirk, and the boy tilted his head as he watched the way her face moved in absolute ecstasy, her lips red and swollen and eyes filled with urgency, and then he trailed his tongue against the outline of her breasts, and that sent the girl over the edge.

The explosion that started it all, the Big Bang, and her universe expanded exponentially, and everything around her swirled— he made something out of nothing, he broke her down in pieces and put her right back together. She let the sensation of her climax ripple through her body, and he watched it curiously, eyes dull and set alight at the same time.

Varya breathed harshly, and swallowed forcefully before she felt Tom wrap a hand around her naked waist and make her stand flush against him, "Now I owe you nothing."

"Excuse me?" her raspy voice managed, and her eyebrows mixed in confusion at the boy's words.

"I gave it back— what you did for me. Now I do not owe you anything, no dependency."

Then, he detached himself, grabbed his coat from the chair, and handed it to Varya. The girl scoffed but accepted it nonetheless. Tom indeed had no idea what intimacy was or how it worked, and he missed many social cues in such situations.

"That is not how it works," she muttered as the boy offered a hand for her to hop off the table, and then pulled her inside. Her wet hair dripped on the marble floor, and she winced as her bare legs touched its coldness. "It is not a trade-off, but something that happens naturally between two people because of sexual attraction."

"Sexual attraction?" Riddle mused as he sat by the fireplace, "Is that what I am feeling? It does explain many nuances of my body's reaction around you."

The way his eyes trailed her body made the girl flush, and she wrapped the coat around herself tighter before averting her gaze from his suave smirk. God, he was so oblivious sometimes for a macabre mastermind— the boy had no concept of human emotions. After all, his lectures only told him how to imitate, not how to recognize such sensations.

Tom hummed to himself in appreciation, and then licked his lips as his train of thought finally arrived at the station. He might have been a sociopath, but even the sickest minds succumbed to the temptation of a beautiful woman, and her intellect and sinister character only made her more of an object of desire. Moreso, he enjoyed the feeling that flowed to his system as he dominated such a powerful witch, the way her magic seemed to reflect in eyes, skin, and lips as he induced such sensations in her.

"So you are attracted to me, then?" the boy hoisted an eyebrow at her, and Varya rolled her eyes, yet nodded at the obvious question. To her, there was more than desire and compatibility, she had feelings for the boy that had rooted themselves deep into her stem, and the change in his behavior only made them grow stronger as they absorbed every bit of vitality from her.

Tom's lips darted upwards at the notion— he knew he was a good-looking man and had had many girls trail after him and try to bewitch for his affection, yet Varya had always seemed as the ultimate conquest.

"Good."

There was something in his timbre as he said the one word that made her knees weak, and she pressed her lips in a thin line, trying to keep her face expressionless, then pivoted on her feet and stormed to her room.

Varya threw herself on the bed, then grabbed a pillow and screamed into it out of frustration.

***

The witch woke up at the crack of dawn with a loud rap on her door, and her face muscles moved lethargically to dissipate the tiredness from her features. She grabbed the silky duvet and threw it to the side, then swung bare feet to the carpeted floor. Groggy eyes flashed to the window, where the first rays of sunlight slipped through cracked curtains, and the early morningsong of birds sounded from nearby trees.

"Wake up, Petrov! We have business to attend to," yelled Tom from the other side of the door, and then her lock twisted at his spell, and he swung the door open.

Varya peered up at him through clumped eyelashes, and saw that he had already dressed in his usual attire— a formal shirt tucked in cotton pants, hoisted up by a leather belt, and his shoulders covered by a long, dark trenchcoat. His hair was stilled neatly, and sometimes she wondered how long it took the boy to present himself in such a compact format, the illusion of perfectness and aristocracy.

She rubbed at her eyes vigorously, and Tom growled in frustration as he looked at her unpacked suitcase. He made way to it, then grabbed a yellow knee-length dress and threw it on her bed, along with other necessities, then packed it swiftly with a spell.

"Be in the common area in ten minutes," he muttered before leaving the room in a hurry, and the girl frowned in confusion at his urgency. Their train was not until midday, and yet he seemed to be ready to dash out the door any second.

She changed quickly, then made her way to the living room where Tom had laid out multiple papers over the dining table. He stood over it, eyebrows knitted in concentration, hands grabbing at the woody edges, and he had an irresistible frown of intellectually creasing his forehead. When he heard her footsteps, marine eyes shot to her, and he straightened himself. With one swift finger motion, he urged her to come closer.

"What is all of this?" the girl asked as her eyes darted over the multitude of parchments and maps.

Tom cleared his throat, then waved his hand over the table, "This is how the Knights keep control of everything. Every piece of information that we have collected and bargained for favors— secrets, darling, are a better currency than money."

He placed a hand on her lower back, then guided her towards the table and in front of himself. Varya looked over the papers and, sure enough, all of them contained information on the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the Ministries, the foreign families, and everything in between. She gasped when she saw her name scribbled on one of them, and just as her hand reached out to it, Riddle pulled it from the table.

"Best not waste our time on this right now, Petrov. We have more important things to attend to first. Rosier has managed to find the hiding spot of one of the Carrow acolytes, and it seems that they are searching Paris for something— some sort of stone that Grindelwald so desires. Now, we are to intercept them by the abandoned factory by _Barrière d'Enfer,_ and I trust you are still capable of handling that silver dagger of yours because magic is not an option."

"Why?" Varya asked, trying to block the image of how he had used that dagger on her from her mind, "And why do you want to find them, anyway?"

"To spite Grindelwald, to extract information of Lopheus' death," he explained, then started rolling up the papers eagerly, "We only have a few hours before our train, and we must be extremely cautious while proceeding, so we cannot leave any trace of magic behind. If Rosier is correct, it will only be Sylvia Carrow that will be present, and I trust you have your own balance to strike with her. She will have guards, and I will need you to deal with them silently while I _chat_ with her."

The Eastern witch felt the wrath bubble underneath her skin as she remembered the demented woman that had sunk her fingers in her flesh, the start of her misery. Yes, there was definitely a need for vengeance in her, and so she nodded to Riddle's plan, earning a satisfied smirk from the boy.

He called the Lestrange car for them, ordering the driver to take them to the two buildings that had once been a gate to one of Paris' walls, and now marked an area that had fallen to the Black Market. It was a peculiar part of the city, and the two students got off near a building that had seen better days.

The old shoe factory had fallen during the collapse of the economy that followed the first world war, a tragedy of the interbelic period, and was now prey to the vegetation that had started ripping at the concrete and bricks that it was made of. Some windows had been broken by storms or people who had lost their homes during the war-time, and Tom easily found an entrance.

He hoisted himself up to one of the frames, then tapped his wand against the shattered glass that had remained, and it disappeared completely. Tom stuck his hand out to help the girl, but Varya grabbed on the edge and pulled herself up, swinging her legs over the margin and landing in the darkness of the room.

A rat crawled between her legs, and she made no move at it, already used to their presence from the Scholomance chambers. It squeaked aggressively as she kicked it away, then scrambled between the broken shelves and into the fissured wall.

Tom let out a small chuckle behind her— Petrov had always been a refined young woman, and yet there was some sort of brutality in her that added to her character. She was not squeamish, nor easily disturbed, and he watched her walk the dusty floor, stepping in the small puddles of dirty water that had accumulated from last night's rain as it slipped through the cracks of the ceilings, and Varya paid no mind as her polished shoes covered in mud and dirt. Few girls of her lineage would walk inside a moldy chamber without as much as a scrunch of their nose.

Then, she stopped in her door frame as she saw the light of a wand reflect on the hallway wall, and the witch dragged Riddle behind a dingy couch as they listened to the approaching footsteps. By the vibrations, there were only three people in there with them, and Tom made a signal for her to take out her knife.

"What has he told you?" came an unfamiliar voice as it resonated through the corridor.

"That he wants it for the girl, and that we must bring it to him in a fortnight," Varya's skin crawled at Sylvia's familiar timbre, and all the girl could remember was how she had chanted the words "slaughter pig" in her ear, and her blood boiled with a burning hatred. "Scatter out, watch for the windows, and then meet me by the assembly line."

With that, two sets of footsteps headed West, and Carrow made her way to the nearby room. Tom gave Varya a signal, and the girl nodded. She slithered her way through the pieces of furniture until she reached the hallway, then followed the trail of one of the wizards.

Her hand felt heavy on her dagger, and the girl realized something— she had never killed someone, at least not intentionally. Varya did not know if she had the courage to slit someone's throat, so as she approached one of the men, she spun the blade in her hand and knocked its handle deep in his temple, knocking him out with a heavy thud.

A scream resonated through the room, and her head twisted toward its origin. At the end of the hallway, Tom had grabbed Sylvia by the throat and knocked her against an assembly line, sending the woman across the room.

One of the other Carrow men dashed through the room, wand already aimed at the Slytherin's back, and as he made to mutter the killing curse, he felt something cold against his neck.

"I would drop my wand if I were you," chimed Varya from behind as she pressed the dagger harder, drawing the tiniest drop of blood and making the man hiss in pain. He was middle-aged, perhaps in his forties, and yet short in stature and width. Most of all, he had the heat of a coward.

"Please," he spluttered, wand immediately crashing against the floor, and Varya chuckled bitterly.

"Do you not love it when a man begs a woman for his life?" Her eyes swayed to where Riddle had pulled some ropes out to tie Sylvia to a chair, and her wicked smile grew as she savored the taste of a new target. She slammed the man's head against a wall, sending him into blissful unconsciousness, "Goodnight."

Sylvia struggled against the restraints, and she tried to flick her hands to cast a curse at the two students, but found herself unable to. Panicked eyes flickered to the young boy dressed in the long, dark coat, "What have you done to my magic?"

Tom ridiculed her with derisive eyes, and then his lips turned in a roguish grin, "Courtesy of my friend, she doused the ropes in one of her brilliant potions— she enjoys experimenting, you see, and is quite devious. Now," he lowered himself until they stood eye to eye, "Why do you not start chirping away what you did to Evergreen?"

Carrow continued to trash viciously, and yet her eyes were lunatic in the somber light of the room, "You little, foolish boy. How dare you stand against the Alliance? When we come for your filthy blood and spill it all over—"

Varya stabbed her hand with her dagger, making her scream echo in the empty building, and then she twisted it as her blood flew and drained to the floor. Tom's eyes shot up to the girl in surprise, and a question mark seemed to dance in his pupils as he analyzed the utter coldness in her expression.

The woman's wailing turned to maddened laughter as she gazed at the witch, and her breath seemed to accelerate, "And look whom we have here, if it is not the escapist. We know where you are hiding, and it is only a matter of time before we reach you. When we do, oh— well, you will see that there is much more we can do to your scrambled brain than the torture. Your emotions will fade into nothingness, and you will become less human and more machinery with each passing day."

Then, she turned her eyes toward Riddle, whose face had glazed over with absolute fury, "I did not kill that boy of yours, no, no. But rest assured that he was discarded for his constant meddling in our affairs, and should you not comply with our rules, you will perhaps be our next target."

"Is that so?" His timbre was of winter frost, and the decadence whirled in a blizzard of madness as his sociopathic calmness took over. Tom got up, then took off his coat gradually, before shuffling his sleeves upward. He circled toward Varya, "Knife?"

Her delicate fingers extended the blade to him in curiosity, and when he grabbed it, the girl found that it made her heart skip a bit— her murder weapon fit in his hands so well. The boy grabbed Sylvia's forearm, then put the knife's tip on her skin.

"Who killed Lopheus?"

"As if I would tell you," the woman spat out, and then Tom engraved the first letter in her epidermis, dragging his knife to carve her out as you would on wood.

Varya tried to peek at it, intrigued, and yet the blood dripped too fast for her to recognize what the boy was doing. Her skin covered in spots as Sylvia's screams bounced against her timpani, and Tom continued to write on her skin with sadism in his eyes.

"What did you come to look for?"

Sylvia gasped as tears of pain and torment trailed down her face, and yet Varya's heart stoned over at the sight— the young girl had endured years of torture at their hand, and found no remorse in returning the favor after so many years. Her agonizing wails seemed to perforate the sound barrier, and they drummed against Varya's ears as the girl tried to block out the sound of the woman's mortality.

"Fuck off."

Tom tsk-ed in an unpleasant tone, and then the silver dagger was back to engraving. Varya looked at him, breath stuck in her lungs, and admired the way his white shirt had stained with reddish liquid, murky and yet enthralling, and how the substance had fallen in drops on his shiny shoes. His features were pulled in tranquility and concentration, and yet a subtle hint of pleasure glimmered in azure eyes— the slightest indication of the utter instability in the boy. Riddle enjoyed causing injury to the acolyte and seemed to find amusement in her bellowing.

"I will drain your bodies of every sign of vitality; I will make sure that your friends find your corpses dangling from their balconies, you evil little roaches," Sylvia shrieked, and then her legs kicked around in utter madness, and her eyes swelled to the size of cups as Tom brought the dagger down on her fingers, cutting off her thumb. She roared with absolute agony, and her vocal cords mixed together in a tight cascade of wrath and murder.

Tom picked the severed digit off of the ground, then placed it on her lap, letting the blood stain her skirt, "You do not want to threaten me, Carrow. There is little that your powerless self can do against me. It is pitiful, really, how Grindelwald put his trust in you so much when your magic can be bested by some of the seventh years at Hogwarts."

Sylvia quieted down now, head leaner over as she panted in pain and gasped for air. Then, her body shook with laughter, and she looked over at the boy, "What a damned little prince you are, no? Boy, you are foolish for believing that you can outrun this."

"Truthfully, I have faced worse than your little brigade of self-proclaimed powerful wizards, and I stand beside men and women much more excellent than you. Now, it is best you simply tell me what Grindelwald is planning, as my patience is wearing thin."

"I would never betray the Alliance, child. Send me to my grave and my lips will still be sealed. And you," she flicked weary eyes to Varya, who was standing stoically by the side, "He will get you. You have no idea what is coming; you have no clue what he has prepared for you."

"I am not scared of Grindelwald," Varya said decisively, but the woman shook her head slowly.

"It is not him you should worry about," she croaked, " _You will die, you will die, you will die_. You will be slaughtered as you should have always been, and he will make sure that your soul burns in Hell you foul roach—"

Blood splattered across Varya's face, and her eyes closed instinctively to shield themselves from the red liquid. A blind hand scrubbed at her skin as she tried to wipe it away. When her eyes opened again, she gasped at the horrifying wrath that etched Tom Riddle's features, and the way his hand gripped the silver dagger harshly as he drove it further in the side of Sylvia's neck.

Then, he took it out and stabbed the woman's chest repeatedly, entirely engulfed by a flame of madness and loathing, and droplets of blood covered his porcelain features as he continued to drive the knife in and out of her body. Sylvia was dead, her eyes glossed over by the Grim Reaper's veil, and yet the boy sliced her skin one last time before stepping away.

Varya watched him butcher the woman in absolute horror, the way his face mixed into something demonic, almost as if Satan himself had spilled through his bloodstream or whispered words of anguish in his ears. At last, that was the proper sociopathic behavior of Tom Riddle, the instability of a broken mind behind the charade of composure, and there was something so macabre at the pleasure that danced in his eyes.

Tom looked at the imagery before him as if he was a painter and her corpse was a prized work of art, a figment of imagination and tenacity, and his blade had been the brush that had portrayed an episode of proportions— the mortality of those who spoke against him and what he stood for. His head turned to Varya, who was still frozen in terror, and her hands shook by her sides as she watched him pick up his coat and cover himself in it, hiding the bloody mess behind black material.

He pulled out a dainty, white handkerchief, and patted it gently against his face before he scrubbed his strong hands with it. Then, Tom placed it in his pocket, and breathed out as he let his mask of composure fall back into place. It was mesmerizing— the way he seemed to fall back in absolute normalcy, almost as if he had mastered the art of feigning humanity.

She had never seen him break quite like this, and had thought that most of his macabre tendencies revolved around torture and, perhaps, the revenge against his muggle father. Nevertheless, that had been personal, and the murder of Sylvia Carrow was anything but that— he had done it just because he could. Tom Riddle was, in fact, a killer.

His hands, the same ones that had touched her so sensually on the previous night, now reeked of blood, of murder. Tom Riddle was an absolute catastrophe, and only divinity could save those who stood against him.

There was something sinister that hung in the air, and Varya dared not look at him for fear of seeing he might have grown horns and a red tail. Nevertheless, Riddle circled her until he was right behind her, then leaned in, "Have I scared you?".

His voice carried no remorse, nor concern for her, and it sounded almost like ridicule, as if he was amused at the way her body no longer moved and her fingers tingled with terror, "No." Her lie fell in a tremble between her parted lips, and she felt him slide the bloodied knife back in her leather belt.

"Good, good. I could not afford doing such a thing, little witch," he mumbled against her ear, then trailed his lips down her beck before pressing a soft kiss to her jaw. It should have made her heart shudder with affection, and yet she knew the boy was not doing it out of some sort of emotion. It was a statement— _she belonged to him, not to Grindelwald_.

His lips turned upwards in a wicked smile, and he slid a warm hand up her body, his mind pulsating with macabre desire. Yes, his little toy to play with. A sinful body with a murder machine nested in her soul, the kind of company he could keep around and entertain himself with.

Then, Tom Riddle was back to his ever-charming facade, and he hoisted his eyebrows at the knocked-out man by the wall. With a swift motion, he grabbed his wand, then altered his memories. When he woke up, he would find that he had murdered his accomplices out of fury— they were traitors, he would argue, and yet nobody would believe him before they hung him.

The wizard's face muscles twitched as he remembered that he had been supposed to interrogate the woman longer and figure out what had happened to Evergreen, and yet he did not regret the killing— it had made his toes curl with ecstasy, the kind of excitement only one other thing brought him.

His eyes darted to Varya, "We have a train to catch."

His footsteps faded away as he exited the room, and yet Varya stood behind for a few more seconds. Her breath came out in frustrated heaps, and she shook her head to regain some of her clarity.

She made her way to where Sylvia Carrow had been butchered, and dragged her arm out, trailing her fingers over the engravings before making them fade to a scar. Better not leave any traces behind.

Then, the witch turned around and followed the boy, yet her mind was swirling as she repeated the words from the woman's arms on a loop, her stomach twisting with dread.

_Lord Voldemort._


	46. chapter forty-four

THEY HAD THEIR own wagon in the train, and Varya stood in the seat by the window, eyes dawdling over the moving trees as their transportation soared through the mountains. The ride itself would take more than a day, and Lestrange had gotten them a compartment with bunk beds to rest through the night. Tom was currently on the top one, legs dangling from the edge as he flipped the pages of his volume of philosophy.

He looked rational, sane, not like a man that had murdered a woman less than twelve hours ago, and it made Varya wonder how many others were in his state— polished beings that paraded themselves with an impression of spotless behavior and yet had their minds plagued with devilry beyond Hell's recognition. Tom Riddle was a piranha in a tank full of goldfish, and he feasted on every weak soul around him with formidable sinister desire.

As if sensing her mystified eyes, he placed his volume by his side and leaned over the railing to give her the raise of an eyebrow, "Yes?".

She parted lips in response but found herself to lack words, and instead just shook her head in distress, "Nothing." Her voice quivered— it irritated the boy beyond wits, and his eyes turned turbulent.

"Do not lie to me," his timbre was barbed, and it scratched her ears. "Is this about that Carrow woman? Did it upset you that you were not the one to kill her?"

Varya huffed in surprise, her hair falling in her face as she snapped her head toward him, "No! How could you even say that? I do not understand why you killed her in the first place— torture, yes, perhaps even her death was deserved. But you did it in such a grotesque manner."

"I see no reason to explain myself to you. She should not have doubted my power if—"

"So you killed her because of a temper tantrum? Merlin, Riddle!"

"She threatened you as well; I felt it was only fair I put her out of her miserable stupidity. Carrow was an old, lewd woman who thought too much of herself— she never stood any chance in front of the two of us, and it was not very intelligent of her to talk as such. She had it coming."

Varya threw her hands up in frustration— he could be such a child sometimes. A malicious, destructive one, but a child nonetheless. If he would go around butchering everyone that thought he was not the most powerful sorcerer to walk the Earth, then perhaps immortality was not a terrible idea since he would have to spend his time killing half of the population.

They fell into tense reticence, where he set her skin on fire with an irritated look, and she avoided his stare by counting the scratches on the small table by the window. Then, she heard him get down from his bed and walk out into the corridor, slamming the door behind him.

She took this moment of peacefulness to change into better clothes, then trailed a brush through her hair. Varya could not wait for them to reach Albania, as sharing such a tight space with Riddle was extremely suffocating, and she preferred having her privacy.

A knock sounded at the door, and she told the person to come in, expecting it to be Tom after he had calmed down. Nevertheless, it was someone else entirely.

"Ivy?" Varya puffed, and the blonde walked inside the compartment before crossing her arms. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Trouche declared, then her eyes flew to the male coat than hung on one of the bunk beds, "I saw you in the station, with Riddle, at that, and I could not believe it! He has brainwashed you as well, and it is ridiculous. Listen, grab your bags quickly, and I am sure we can get off at the next stop, and then I will keep you away from him— what does he have over you, anyway?"

Varya blinked at the girl, and found that words were hard to enunciate in a state of absolute shock, "Ivy, I am so sorry."

Of course, how could she forget that the girl resented the boy so much? Although she had quieted down in the new semester, Ivy had been vehement on destroying Riddle after he had tried recruiting Alphard Black, and probably blamed him for their break-up as well.

Ivy glared at her, then shook her head repeatedly, "No— do not tell me that you fell for his mind games as well, do not tell me that you were stupid enough to become attached. Please, Varya, tell me I am completely wrong and that what I see right now in your eyes is not affection for that vicious serpent."

"I could not help it," Varya tried to defend herself as she stopped her roommate from leaving the wagon in a fury by standing in front of the door, "He just— it happened, all right? I cannot choose whom I fall for, and as Rosier said—"

"Rosier?" Ivy threw her head back in a caustic laugh, then clapped ironically, "Unbelievable, truly. Not only did you manage to fall for the one boy I hate most in that school more than Selwyn, but you have also been hanging out with his mindless followers. Rosier, really? That drunken fool has no intellectual bone in his body, have you not seen the way they all look at him? Even Riddle knows that everything that boy says is absurd!"

Varya felt herself growing angry at her friend's judgment, and she did not like the way Trouche had let all of the compliments and admiration of their fellow peers affect her— she had been put on a pedestal, and now there was some arrogance to her that had not been there previously.

"I quite disagree. He is extremely thoughtful, and just because Ren enjoys drinking, it does not mean he is not valuable. Tom considers him an essential part of the group. Stop talking as if you know everything about everyone!"

"Oh, yeah, but you sure do, right?" Ivy bit ironically. "I am sure Riddle told you all about that, did he not? Merlin, Varya! You were supposed to be the good one!"

And that is all it took for the Petrov witch to rage.

"For Hell's sake! When will you and everyone else understand that I never wanted to be good? I am not some kind of heroine that you can all look up to; I am not here to help anyone except myself— stop attributing your values to me and treating me like some sort of puppet that you can string along," her voice had gone belligerent, and Ivy flinched back at her tone, "Varya do this! Varya, do that! I do not want to be part of your scheme against Tom, or Elladora, or anyone else. I have no interest in stealing Riddle's journal and—"

"You have no interest in stealing my journal, Petrov?"

Her body hardened, and Ivy herself blanched as she gazed over Varya's shoulder and saw the stoic face of Tom Riddle. He closed the door behind him, then stepped inside the compartment casually, yet Varya could tell he was mad beyond reason. Even so, he completely passed her, and made his way to Ivy Trouche, who tried to look up at him defiantly but somewhat cowered under his scrutinizing expression.

"Perhaps, if you had not been so worried about taking me down, Alphard would not have fallen for Elladora's manipulation so easily, Trouche," he smirked viciously.

"You little snake! So it was you who put her up to it. Why, Riddle? Because you did not fancy the idea of someone stealing your spotlight?" Ivy sounded, and then she raised her hand to strike him, but he caught it swiftly and crumpled it, making her wince. Varya tried to pull Riddle back, but the boy would not budge.

"That was the least of my worries. You see, someone like you could never outshine someone like me, regardless of the things you do to make yourself stand out. In the end, I achieve effortlessly what you strive for and much more," Tom pushed her hand away, then circled her slowly, deliberately, "But one thing I do not appreciate is you whispering ridiculous plots in Petrov's ears."

"Piss off, Riddle."

He clicked his tongue against his cheek, impatiently, "Consider this your last warning, Trouche. Stop meddling with my business, or prepare to face the consequences of your actions." He made his way to the door, then opened it for her. As she strode by, he grabbed her forearm and whispered in her ear, "It would be a shame if you would not make it to next year to accept that Captain position."

Ivy pulled her arm out of his grasp and sneered in his face, then dashed out of the compartment, letting the door fall shut behind her forcefully.

Varya sighed, and her hands went to her temples as she massaged away the headache— she was remarkably conflicted. On the one hand, she knew Ivy was being ludicrous and trying to push her into things she did not want to do. On the other hand, that was precisely what Riddle was doing too.

The boy held in his spot, then glanced at the Eastern witch, "Is that why you blew up my journal?"

She raised her eyes to meet his and was surprised to see that he had calmed down, "No. I did that because you tried to fucking kill me."

He blinked at her lethargically, then completely ignored her jab as he pulled himself up and back into the bed. They still had a few hours left of the ride, and night had fallen over Europe as the moon rose to the sky.

"I suggest you get some sleep. We have a long day tomorrow," was the last thing he said before he shut the lights and let the darkness envelop them.

***

Varya Petrov felt at home amid the Albanian market, walking between stalls of wonderful vegetables, fruits, and various other trinkets. There was something awfully familiar about the southern-eastern atmosphere, the Balkanic charm that resonated on the faces of the passers-by.

She did not speak the language, yet she understood the body gestures and facial mimics of the people much better than those in England. The girl dragged her luggage behind as she followed Tom to an Inn by the forests' edge, and the boy knocked on the door.

Varya glanced around the village's center, admiring the rustic appeal of Vermosh, Albania. It was quaint, with little houses scattered in spaced patterns, and the only joint construction was the small church that stood in the middle, where the spring market was now taking place.

A woman opened the door, and Varya tried not to stare at her, as she was extremely tall, perhaps even more so than Tom. She was wearing an apron around her waist, and waved them inside eagerly.

The witch could immediately tell that this was no Parisian hotel, and yet she found that she liked it more. It was cozy, although it smelled of stew and alcohol as it also had a pub section, and yet it had an interesting appeal to it. The innkeeper guided them to their rooms, which were right by each other on the second floor, and Tom thanked her. The woman swooned at his charm, as he bowed his head politely, then left to tend to the bar once again.

"Settle in, and then meet me outside in an hour," he told her before disappearing into his own room, and Varya sighed as she entered hers.

It was small, and it only had a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe made of wood. Varya saw no point in unpacking her suitcase — she never really did — so she just left it by her bed frame, then headed back out into the spring air. After scurrying the area and concluding that Riddle was not out yet, the witch made her way to the market that was by the church, eager to see what it had to offer.

She stopped by a stall that sold multiple handmade objects and admired the dexterous craft with fascination. Then, her eyes fell on something intriguing— a leather-bound journal. A small smile made its way to her lips, and she waved over the lady that owned the stall.

"How much for that?" the girl asked, and the woman raised an eyebrow at her. Of course, they did not speak English. So Varya picked up the journal and held out a muggle bill, fluttering it in the air. The woman communicated with her hands, telling her it was twenty leks, and the girl handed over the money.

She packed the journal in a bag, then stuffed it in an inside pocket of her coat just as she saw Tom making his way out of the Inn. He looked relatively odd in his typical attire— a casual white shirt and beige trousers, probably the clothes he wore around the orphanage. Nevertheless, her heart skipped as he neared her looking more mundane than ever. It almost felt familiar, as if they were a couple on vacation. It almost made her forget that he had murdered someone twenty-four hours ago.

Varya headed to him, and her cheeks hurt from smiling at his attire— it made her happy for reasons she did not understand. He hoisted an eyebrow at her once she stood in front of him, "Why are you smiling?"

"You look delightful," the witch beamed.

Tom narrowed his eyes at her, then scoffed, and looked down at his clothes, "I fail to see how I could ever look...delightful."

"I have never seen you in anything except dress shirts and sweaters, and I think it is alluring— a nice contrast, makes you actually look like you have some humanity left in you."

"Funny."

"One of us has to be."

The boy rolled his eyes at her, aggravated by her childishness, then told her to follow him toward a bench by the Inn's gardens. They sat down, and the boy pulled up one of his maps, telling the girl to look at the marking carefully.

"We are here, right by the edge of the forest, and Lestrange marked this area as the most likely to be the one where we will find it. If Helena's story is correct, then it should be right in the heart of the woods," he explained as he leaned over her shoulder to point at places on the map, and the girl breathed in his fragrance, heart fluttering at his proximity.

"I will be honest, Riddle. I am not going anywhere tonight. I barely slept on that train, and I do not want to go walking in the woods without being fully rested."

"We have to go at night; otherwise, we will attract too much attention."

"Then we go tomorrow, or you go alone."

He threw the map to the ground in frustration, then turned around to soothe his impatience. She was unbearable and had grown to be even more so in the past weeks. It was almost as if the girl thought she was allowed to be a nuisance without consequences around him. For Merlin's sake, he had murdered someone, and she was more focused on what he was wearing.

Tom twisted around and glanced at the girl that was still sitting on the bench, staring aimlessly at the people that walked through the market place, and, at that moment, he thought she looked more radiant than she had in a while. Varya had endured a lot, most of it at his hand, and so he scoffed before letting his mind contemplate the situation.

"Fine," he growled, then looked around, "I will see you tomorrow."

Varya blinked at his figure as it disappeared into the Inn, leaving her outside. She had thought that they would spend time together, but then again— this was Tom Riddle. Things never came easily with him, and he probably locked himself in his room on free days, pulled the curtains, and hissed at snakes.

Nevertheless, the girl had to find something to do around here, and so she followed him inside, prepared to give him a detailed explanation of why they should explore the village. Just as she was about to go up the stairs, she saw a woman crying in the corner of the pub, and some of the locals had gathered around her.

Varya approached them steadily; then, they turned to give her a judgmental look as she stopped in front of the table with curiosity.

"What happened?" the girl inquired, and the locals exchanged a few glances before pushing forward a teenage boy. He could not have been older than her, perhaps the same age, and his cheeks immediately flushed at having to talk to the foreign girl.

"Miss, uh," he looked back at the weeping woman, who nodded her head viciously, "My sister, young Saemira, she got lost last night in the woods, and we have not seen her since. We saw that you came with a young man, and most of our fathers have been drafted to war after the Italian invasion."

The question was not muttered, and yet it hung in the static air, so much so that the girl felt she could almost feel its weight on her shoulders, "Which woods?".

The boy mumbled the answer rapidly, and Varya dashed to the stairs, and up to the floor she shared with Riddle. She banged at his door eagerly, and then it swung open, revealing the Slytherin heir in his grandeur. He had changed, it seemed, into darker clothes, probably bothered by her comment and lack of respect.

"What do you need, Petrov?"

"Grab a backpack and your wand— there is a missing girl in the village, and considering the news lately, I suspect it has something to do with at least one other creature," she pushed past him in the room, and scanned it quickly. He had placed all of his clothes in the wardrobe neatly, and the desk was covered in stacks of books and parchments, a quill placed near an open inkpot. She waved her hand and shut it, "You know, many say that the way we arrange our rooms is a representation of our character. Yours is always so spotless, so impersonal— you have no emotion in your design. And then there is your desk, always a mess, just like your mind."

The boy scoffed as he grabbed a bag, stuffing a change of clothes and some magical items inside. He did not really care about saving a girl, but if Varya was right, this was a creature attacking a village, and he could not help but be curious at how her spells would manifest against it.

"And how is yours?"

"Messy," she said, tilting her head from side to side as she debated, "I never unpack because I know I will leave soon— comes with never having a home."

She watched him grab his shoes and stuff his feet inside with a struggle. It was weird seeing him do such normal things. Riddle looked at her, "I never had one either, and yet I still unpack. You are just a sloth."

"You had the orphanage, some sort of stability. I got moved from my parents' home to Grindelwald's castle, then to Scholomance, then to Hogwarts. Well, I suppose you are homeless now too, since you decided to burn your place down."

He glared at her, "I did not do it."

"Right."

"I am not saying the news was not thrilling— but I was not the one to burn it down. After all, it just complicates everything for me. Now, they have to relocate me unless I can prove a stable residence. Once we are done here, I have to go to Nott's place and ask him to sign some papers for me saying his family is hosting me until I turn eighteen— you think I like that?"

"I do not know; you sometimes are extremely rash and make bad decisions out of anger—"

"I hardly ever make mistakes." She still did not believe him.

Then, the girl remembered something, and she dove her hand in her pocket before taking out the package and tossing it in the boy's lap, "There you go. Saw that and thought you would enjoy it."

Tom picked up the wrapped gift with an incredulous look, and yet he opened it with steady hands and intrigue. His eyes widened when he saw the leather journal— it was handmade, with strong stitches and harsh paper that could handle the scratching of a quill. If he could say so, it was even more beautiful than his old one. He gazed at her with uncertainty, unsure what to say. Varya bit her lip. Perhaps, he did not like it, but the boy's voice shook that worry away.

"Thank you," he said sincerely. He had never received a gift before, at least not one that did not carry some sort of emotional debt behind it, and although he could not understand the reasoning behind it, Tom found himself slightly pleased. Perhaps, this was the witch's way of acknowledging her wrongdoing in burning his journal.

Almost as if sensing his thought, Varya crossed her hands and said snarkily, "You still deserved to have your stupid diary burned for quite literally trying to kill me, but I saw it and thought you might find it useful."

It would be useful for writing, yes, and yet the boy wondered if it could ever fulfill the purpose of what the original one was supposed to do— become a Horcrux. For one to place a piece of his soul in something, the object had to be of great significance. His old notebook had been with him for years, whereas this one was new and had no strings attached to it.

Tom got up from his bed, stuffed the journal in his bag, then gestured for them to head out. Petrov walked ahead, hair bouncing as she went down the stairs and exited the pub, and he trailed closely behind.

Varya had her suspicions about what the creature itself could be— a ghoul seemed most likely considering the recent sightings, and yet she had to keep her mind open to any possibility. Sometimes, knowing little details about a task was more frightening than not knowing anything at all.

The forest was quiet as they passed the first line of trees, and that itself was worrisome. Nature was _never_ silent, not unless something had frightened it into going mute. Varya wanted to advance, but Tom held her back, signaling that they should proceed with caution. The girl huffed and nodded, then pointed in a general direction. She could almost hear a faraway stream resonate through the vegetation, and her breath stilled as something cracked a twig in the distance.

The witch hid behind a tree, and looked around until she spotted a rocky edge a few meters away, and near it, a cave. If something in the wood were terrorizing children, it would most definitely take them underground.

"We have to go down there," she told the boy, and his eyes followed her movement. Varya could not help but compare his reaction to Icarus. The Lestrange boy had been conscientious during their encounter with a demon, and had tried to protect her until he was attacked. Tom, on the other hand, seemed almost excited at the notion of a cannibalistic creature torturing and murdering children.

The cave seemed to be the entrance to an abandoned mine, and pillars of wood kept the unstable roof up. Just by looking at the structure, Tom could tell it had been closed for being possibly unsafe. He pulled his wand out, then stepped inside quietly.

The mine itself seemed quiet, and yet that meant nothing, as ghouls were never loud unless they were hunting. As soon as Varya stepped inside, though, she felt the dark presence of death dominate over the underground.

They advanced inaudibly, and her heart rushed with trepidation, eyes glancing at Riddle continuously to make sure that he was safe. The boy did not seem to be fazed by the darkness of the tunnel, and he let his hands trail on the abandoned pickaxes and minecarts. In his mind, he was discovering a hidden piece of history.

"What do you think happened here?" Tom asked, his voice so hushed it was almost the wind's whisper, and Varya felt him lean over her shoulder to talk in her ear. She suppressed a shudder.

"At Scholomance, they thought us that places of accidents have a certain energy to them. The absolute terror in this cave, the way my palms are sweating for no reason— my body is reacting to the presence of death," her voice was grave, and the boy was entirely fascinated by her words, "It is almost like we are sitting on a mass grave."

A loud shriek resonated through the tunnel, and a few pebbles fell on Tom's curls as the frequency vibrated through the ground. Varya immediately shut both of their light-up wands, and pushed Tom behind a minecart, whereas she took cover by a wood pillar.

It was him that spotted it first— a white, odious looking creature that crawled on the walls and rattled at fast speeds. It looked like a famished cadaver, and Tom could see a bone sticking out from its skin as it hung to the walls, head snapping back and forth. It had heard them talk, as it was susceptible to sound despite being blind, and Varya found herself covering her mouth in fear.

It jumped to the ground on all fours, then slowly raised to its two back feet— it did not look any more human though, and Varya's eyes watered as she saw a small arm dangling from its mouth. It seemed that they were too late to save poor Saemira. Its long fangs were covered in fresh blood, and it leaned over the girl's arm as it ripped the flesh eagerly, splattering blood everywhere, and some droplets fell on Tom's face.

He pursed his lips in discontent, and made a small sound of disapproval— it was enough to attract the ghoul's attention. Varya stilled as she watched the ghoul approach Riddle, small ravenous shrieks leaving its mouth as it reached out to the boy blindly, trying to find him. Its claws almost grazed his hair, and that is when the girl sprung into action.

"Come here, you little bitch," she screeched, then started dashing down the tunnel as the creature let out a loud howl and jumped from wall to wall, trying to catch her. Its legs snapped and cracked beneath it, and it ran at her with a rabid look in its eyes.

Varya's heart beat faster as she took a turn, and her ankle bent at an odd angle. She winced, then ignored the pain as she continued to run away. Her body turned, and she sent out a fire blast to the ghoul, sending it flying into the opposite wall.

This gave the girl enough time to jump in a minecart and push herself down the rails; then, she used a wind caster spell to make it go faster. It crashed against a bump, and her body flew in the air before falling down four meters and hitting a rock.

***

Tom stood in his spot, unmoving, unsure what to do. Varya had dashed down the tunnel, and the creature had followed her rapidly, its screams echoing through the mine as the girl tried to get it away from him. He had made a mistake, and it had almost cost him his life.

He got up to his feet slowly, making sure that he made no significant sounds, and his eyes trailed the darkened tunnel. It was a mine, and multiple rail tracks covered the ground, some ending abruptly above steep falls to a lower level.

His pupils dilated as he saw a small body in the corner, bloodied and mangled. The little girl's face had been clawed off, and one of its eyes dangled from the socket grotesquely, her lips thorn off thoroughly almost as if something had chewed at her face. One of her limbs was severed, and the ghoul had thrown it against the wall when Varya had called for it, splattering its meat against the cave.

Tom glanced at the body stoically and was about to leave it there before he sighed in frustration. Varya would want the child to be brought back to her parents. So he cast a spell at it, levitating it above the ground and grimacing at the guts that spilled on the floor from the open abdomen, then sent it to the cave's entrance. He would pick it up later, and see if he could cast an illusion charm on it so the parents would not have to see their child so shredded.

If Varya's assumptions were correct, then the ghoul was the body of a miner that had been stuck underground after the walls had collapsed, and out of desperation, he had feasted on the flesh of his mates. Riddle grimaced at that, utterly disgusted by the imagery, and then he stared ahead at where Varya had run.

The wizard picked up his pace, and yet strode around carefully, trying to listen for the creature as it crawled in the dark. They could not have gotten far, and yet he was met with utter silence. His brain twisted as he considered his options— he could leave right now and look for the diadem, as the danger would present a risk to the cause, or he could look for Varya and try to see if she was alive.

The option came easily, and with a sigh, he swung his feet over a drop as he lowered himself into the next level. Tom made sure to engrave a symbol on the walls he passed; otherwise, they would never know which way to go.

" _Riddle_!"

His head snapped to the dark entrance that led to a different area than where he had seen the girl run, and Tom frowned. His feet made their way, and just as he was about to go down that path, he stopped— the voice had sounded like Varya, and yet there was something different about it. The girl's timber was lower than most girls, and whenever she said his name, her accent made it sound completely different. More so, the girl had made a habit out of calling him Tom.

" _Riddle, come help me!_ "

The voice was whiny, needy— it did not belong to the strong Obscurial. Something was trying to lure him into the shadows by mimicking her voice, and his heart sped up as he realized that Varya was nowhere around. How did it even know his name? For how long had it been watching them in the forest?

His skin covered with goosebumps, and he retracted slowly before heading down the opposite pathway. The boy spotted a cart that had turned upside down, and he walked to it faster, knowing that he had heard one trailing against the railway after the creature had chased the girl.

Sure enough, four meters below, was Varya Petrov's body, and his breath stilled as he saw the blood pooling from her head. Fuck— he hoped she was alive. Tom threw himself to the ground, wincing as his shoulder hit something harsh, and when he turned to look at it, his eyes enlarged at the corpses that ornated the ground.

A mass grave, the girl had pondered, and it seemed to be extremely accurate. Some bodies had already turned to skeletons, and their miner clothes clung to them in dusty rags, whereas some were in different stages of putrefaction, with parts that had been chewed off or missing limbs. Tom's eyes watered at the rancid odor, and he scurried to get to the girl as he saw a shadow sliding against the wall.

He grabbed Varya's body, and sighed in relief when he felt the pulse against his palm, then dragged it in an opening in the wall. Riddle assumed that this pit was where the creature would dump the bodies it had feasted on, and the scent of death would hide the metallic odor of Varya's blood.

Tom quickly cast a silencing charm on them, and then he put her up against the wall and grabbed her face, trying to shake her awake, "Petrov! Bloody hell, this is not the time for a nap," he muttered as his eyes darted to the ghoul that was now crawling on the wall in alertness.

Varya groaned, then blinked her eyes open as she stared at Riddle. Her vision was spotty, and she felt light-headed due to blood loss. Her head fell to the side, and that is when she saw the creature. Shit, they were still in the cave.

"The girl?" she managed to get out, and Tom ripped at his dark shirt, then used the material to apply pressure to her wound. Varya bit back a scream at the pain, and she knew her skull must have been at least slightly fractured by the way her bone moved at the touch.

"Dead," he said absently, as his only focus was reducing the active bleeding. He should have asked Lestrange and Avery to give him more books on medical spells, "Her body is by the entrance. We need to get out, but I have no idea how we get past that beast."

"It fears fire," Varya said weekly, then grabbed Tom's wrist, "Stop that, it hurts."

"You prefer bleeding out?"

The girl narrowed her eyes at him, but said nothing as she glanced at the ghoul who was still searching for them. Then, she noticed the corpses, "If we can get back up to the first floor, I can set the pit on fire. The clothes the cadavers are wearing should be enough for me to light up, and it will scare the ghoul away."

"But how do we kill it?"

"You cannot— it is immortal. Perhaps, you should consider feasting on human flesh as well since you are so desperate for that."

"Charming, but this is not the time for your distasteful jabs. There must be a way to murder it."

"Maybe," Varya pondered, "I think you might be able to by decapitation, but with the speed that it is moving at, we would never have time before it sunk its claws in our chest."

"You _think_?" Riddle scoffed. He tied the improvised bandage around the girl's head, much like Elladora did whenever any of the Knights would sustain serious head injuries. "Use your Obscurus."

"This whole mine will fall on us if I do that," Varya argued as the boy got her to her feet, "Our best shot is trying to scare it with fire, and then once we are outside, we make the mine collapse in on itself. It will not be able to get out, at least not until someone starts digging."

Tom nodded, and then they stepped out into the pit. They walked towards one of the ladders by the side, and the boy climbed up first before handing out a hand to the girl and dragging her upwards. Varya groaned as the pounding in her head increased, and she clung to Riddle for support as they got up on the edge.

The ghoul's shriek intensified as it heard the pebbles rattle from their movement, and just as it jumped in the air towards them, Tom sent out a fire spell, scaring it into cowering to the edge.

"Run!"

They both dashed amongst the corridors, Tom holding onto her wrist and guiding her through the maze of tunnels that he had marked while the ghoul continued crawling on the ceiling and chasing them. Varya gasped for air as they neared the entrance, and then turned her head to the beast before sending another fire spell its way.

Just as they pulled through the exit, Riddle managed to grab the body that he had left there, and Varya sent a blasting spell toward the entrance just as the ghoul tried to pounce from the shadows, crushing it underneath the weight of the mountain.

They both stood in their places, panting furiously, before Petrov collapsed to her knees. She felt weak, dizzy, and Tom had to hoist her up and carry her through the woods, the child's body levitating behind them.

"What are we going to tell the parents?" Varya's voice cracked as she saw the young one's destroyed figure, and knew there was no explanation for how bad it had gotten. Her heart churned for the girl who had been killed too early, and yet she knew that at least the situation would not escalate as it had in Switzerland.

"She wandered into the mines and fell. The impact killed her," then he cast an illusion charm on the body, and where the limb had been ripped off grew a new one. The corpse still had a few signs of trauma, typical of those that died from falling due to heights, but it no longer carried the macabre story of a ghoul murder.

They made their way back to the Inn, making sure that nobody saw their display of magic, then Tom set the Eastern witch back to her feet, "Can you walk?"

"Yes, I am just dizzy. The adrenaline is keeping me awake, but I will have to treat my wounds as soon as we go back inside. You will have to talk to the family."

As soon as they walked in, Tom carrying little Mira, her mother's wails filled the room, and she threw herself at the ground in front of the boy's feet. Varya sent him a stare before climbing the stairs rapidly, hoping that Tom could gather enough compassion to tell a convincing story and comfort the woman who had just lost a child.

The witch slammed the door behind her, then winced as she felt the pain kick in at full speed. She sat down on her bed and pulled her wand before applying slight pressure with it, feeling the way the bone moved underneath her skin. With teary eyes, she grabbed her potion pouch, then scrambled to find the one that cured broken bones and downed it eagerly.

It tasted bitter, and her head pulsated with a deep ache as the bones settled back in their place, but at least she would not have any serious cranial trauma— Merlin bless magic. Varya pulled at her dirty clothes and threw them to the side before walking inside the bathroom and turning on the shower. She scrubbed at her murky skin, then washed her hair eagerly before stepping out and putting on her nightgown.

Her skin was covered in bruises, and she picked up the ointment that she had brought and started applying it in the mirror that was beside her wardrobe. Her hands bent awkwardly as she tried to reach the ones on her back, and yet she found herself unable to.

A knock sounded at her door, and she let her gown fall back down, "Yes?"

Tom pushed open the door, and his eyes widened at her improper attire before he stepped into the room quickly, shutting the door behind him, "What are you doing?".

"Trying to treat my bruises so I can still walk tomorrow," she sighed, glancing at her purple legs, "Mind helping me?"

The boy stood still for a moment, unsure of what to do, before he felt his feet move across the floor. Tom stood behind her, and she passed him the ointment before sitting down on the edge of the bed. He followed swiftly, then moved her hair aside to dab the treatment on her nape.

His fingers were soft, and Varya felt goosebumps cover her skin at the proximity. She bit back a soft sigh that almost slipped through her lips, then closed her eyes and enjoyed the way he touched her— soft, cautious, almost as if she was something he did not want to break.

"You saved me from that creature," Riddle said eventually as he moved to the girl's arms. He pushed her short nightgown sleeves up, revealing her shoulders, and then he pressed delicate fingers against milky skin covered in dots and spots of purple.

"You would have done the same thing," Varya tried, then she met his eyes through the mirror and saw the hesitation, "...or not."

"When will you understand?" Tom leaned in, murmuring against her ear as he trailed his hand down her arm, "I do not care for you. I do not care for anyone except myself and what I stand for."

He trailed his lips down her neck, then pressed a soft kiss on her shoulder, and her hands grasped at his thigh as she bit down a groan. Varya's eyes rolled back, and his hands lifted her nightgown up her back, before Riddle continued applying the lotion, massaging it into her skin.

Tom was not sure what to make of the girl— all he knew was that his body reacted to her in ways it had not to other women, and that it pleasured him wildly to touch her. So he continued doing so, although selfishly, not caring that her heart sped up as his velvet lips touched cashmere skin. He was greedy for more; he wanted to drown in how he felt electrified whenever she was near.

Nevertheless, the boy's heart was still of stone, and besides the natural human reaction to sexual desire, Tom Riddle's mind continued to be of a darker nuance, where every rose that grew shriveled in the cold storm of trauma and despair.

Eventually, he had covered every inch of her with his lips and her medical cream, and he stood up from his position. Tom wanted things, things that should be shared only between people who cared for each other, and despite his guilt-free mind telling him to take it, he stepped away. No, he needed her mind to be on alert for what he had prepared tomorrow.

"I will see you at breakfast."

Each time he left her, it hurt a little more.


	47. chapter forty-five

THE INN’S STAIRCASE creaked as Varya Petrov made her way downstairs, rubbing her eyes in an attempt to converge her vision. Sleep had not come easily last night, not after Tom had left in a hurry once he had finished applying her medicinal lotion. The girl had felt empty without his presence, and had stirred all night in bed from one side to another as her mind burned alive with one thing— him.

Her locks of shadows and ash were pulled in a delicate braid that she had pinned in a bun, and she wore dark trousers and a cotton blouse, so oddly looking for a woman of her times. Varya knew that they would be heading into the forest that day, and so she did not want to spend her time walking in a dainty skirt.

The pub hummed even in the early hour, with some guests eating breakfast, and she spotted Tom Riddle at a table in the far corner. He was reading a newspaper as his fork scrambled his eggs absentmindedly, and he had fashioned himself a marine sweater and belted pants, which made his azure eyes stand out even from across the room. His hair was made of the darkness spun by night spiders, and it fell in soft curls around his head, a mess of waves.

Varya saw a young woman approach him, barely older than her, and she stood by him with a flushed face and dreamy eyes, muttering something in English by the way his face moved in recognition. The Eastern's witch's abdomen tightened as the boy flashed the girl a charming smile, eyes moving slowly as he took her in— it was odd to see his facade after having been around his true self for so long.

The girl giggled at something he had said, then made to sit down across from him, and that was enough to make Varya march toward the table, "Excuse me, but I believe you are sitting in my seat."

The Albanian girl gasped, then her cascade of blonde hair ruffled as she hurried to move away, "I am so sorry— I did not know, oh! I apologize, miss!". Then, she ran away to another table, face red as she was surrounded by her friend's titters.

"You have always looked dashing in green, but I have to say jealousy is an interesting look on you."

Varya's head snapped to Riddle, who had an eyebrow lifted in a mocking attitude at her obtrusive display of possessiveness. She sat down in the chair, then pulled his plate of food toward her and dove her fork in it, "Jealousy? You must have me mistaken. I simply do not want you to be distracted by other women when we have other things to attend to."

"Other women?" Tom said cockily, then sank back in his place as his eyes trailed Varya from her toes to her head, "Recognizing your possessiveness is not a fault, Petrov. After all, I must admit that my own blood does boil when I see men admiring you. I am territorial, you see, and I do not appreciate others lusting after my...toys."

The girl choked on her breakfast, "I am not your toy Riddle. Merlin! You sure do struggle to see me as a human, do you not? First, a weapon, now...whatever it is you are picturing."

Tom huffed in annoyance and looked away, displeased at her refusal to admit that she belonged to him. But, of course, she did— why would the girl engage in such things if she was not his to enjoy? Attraction, that is what she had called it, and the boy was still trying to understand the mechanics behind such a thing.

His whole life, Tom had only known one thing— violence. So whenever the witch managed to stimulate some reaction of him, his mind immediately thought he was reacting out of hatred. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that he was a boy of circumstances. His life had been a joke, a mess of abandonment and pain, and his mind had closed itself to all possibility of love and affection. In Tom Riddle's twisted mind, the only way he had ever had people pay attention to him was through power and fear— better to be feared if they cannot love you.

His psychological clock also made him extremely possessive. He had not had many things to claim as his during his life, having shared everything with the other children from the orphanage. He was still childish, an uncultivated seed, and had found something to entertain himself with.

It was a dangerous game he was playing at, as Varya Petrov was anything but a submissive being. She had learned through her life that attachments ended in persecution, and that she had to be self-reliant in order to survive. The witch had grown up treated as some sort of object, and Tom's attitude made her queasy with each day.

"When are we heading out?" she asked unobtrusively, eyes shooting to the table of girls that were still watching Tom. The boy flitted them a smile, and Varya scowled. Although it was artificial, he had never bothered pretending to be a gentleman with her, not since he had found out about her school.

"As soon as possible. It should take us a few hours to head through the forest, and after last night I believe it is best we go during the day," he turned his abdomen around, looking out the window at the gray sky, "It seems that a storm is approaching. Terrible timing. Alas, we proceed with caution."

Varya nodded, then stabbed a strawberry with her fork in exasperation. She did not enjoy feeling like this, as if his attention was not on her entirely, and so turned her head to glare at the women terribly. They gasped, then went back to eating their food quietly, stealing quick glances at the Eastern witch that seemed to be plotting their murder.

Tom paid no mind to it as he removed the napkin from his lap and folded it carefully before placing it on the table. He twisted his neck to relieve the tension, then gave the witch a brief nod as he headed upstairs to pack their necessary provisions.

After finishing her food, Varya headed into the crisp air of April, and stuck her hand out to feel the slight drizzle of rain on her skin. A smile ghosted her lips, then memories flashed to the night they had spent in Paris, and her heart twisted at the memory. She yearned for the boy to share her feelings, and yet was aware of the fact that he was only seeing her as a means to relieve tension and frustration.

"Are you ready?" questioned Riddle as he marched outside and passed her a bag to carry, "It should be a hike through the main road, and then we stray away and head North. Helena said something...something about a fortress of sorts. She had been staying there, hiding, and then when the Baron came, she ran into the woods and threw the diadem so her mother could not find it."

Varya nodded, recalling the story he had told her on the train, and then proceeded after him as they sauntered into the forest and beyond the impressive oak trees. Her nerves were still high-strung after what had happened last night, and although her wounds had mostly healed, there was a dull ache in her body.

Tom led the way effortlessly, and despite having a map of the tracks, he barely used it. It was almost as if he had spent hours memorizing each bifurcation, the way the roads twisted and split in complicated patterns. With his obsessive behavior, it was not hard to imagine the boy doing such, and the girl scoffed at the thought.

He peered back at her with narrowed eyes, "What is it?"

"Nothing," she mused innocently, and Tom wanted to bash her head against a tree in frustration. He did not like it when she lied, "What do you want this diadem for, anyway?"

"I am surprised you are only asking this of me now. It is rather stupid that you came with me regardless of my motives. What if I tried to lure you here and murder you?"

Varya gasped, "Do not call me stupid!" She chucked an empty water flask at his head, and he adapted quickly and flung a spell her way, sending her to fall on her back. The witch keened as she felt the ache in her spine, and glared at the Slytherin prefect.

Tom stared at her impassively, before swirling around and continuing his journey, not even bothering to wait for her. It was an interesting dynamic that they had, and notwithstanding the constant banter, Varya liked to think that most would not have escaped only with a bruised tailbone after tossing a metal flask at Tom Riddle's head.

She got up and ran to catch up with him, "So? What will you use it for?".

The boy sighed deeply. He was getting thwarted by her endless chatter. They stopped in front of a bifurcation, and Tom investigated the sign. This is where they would head off-track, "Horcrux."

Varya's eyes winched, and her lips squeezed in uneasiness. She did not say anything, but the boy felt her condemnation hit his back in waves— the girl was glowering at his figure, obviously displeased by the fact that he was pursuing such endeavors. Yet, he could not bring himself to care. At the end of the day, his cause came above all.

"What is Lord Voldemort?" she inquired suddenly, and Tom's gaze snapped to her in a daze of fierceness and surprise, "You engraved it into Carrow's arm."

The boy paused in his tracks, then took out his wand and spelled out his name into the air. Varya watched as the letters rearranged themselves to spell out new words, "Lord Voldemort is my past, present, and future," his whisper was terrible, a snake of darkness that pulsated in the air, and then he half-turned his face to look at her.

"You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle father's name forever? I, in whose veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my mother's side? I, keep the name of a foul, common Muggle, who abandoned me even before I was born, just because he found out his wife was a witch? No, Petrov- I fashioned myself a new name, a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!"

"That is ridiculous, Tom. Your past is what made you into this person, and a name is nothing but the meaning we have it be," the girl said with exasperation, marching toward him in anger, "Do you know what my name means?"

Tom gave her an inquisitive look, and yet it was merged in with the rage that was growing at her unimpressed expression, "No."

"Petrov comes from the biblical name Peter, the apostle which Christ believed would be the rock on which he built Christianity, just like Grindelwald believed me to be the setting stone to his empire. Varya itself means stranger, foreigner, but not to those around me. No. Only ever to myself— _the stranger that lives inside of me, the parasite_." the girl bit back sternly, her heart contorting with despondency as she thought about it. After realizing her fate, multiple things had started setting themselves into place, and the witch had had a different perspective of her life.

"But your name comes from power-"

"No, it does not!" she thundered at him, "It comes from people that only ever saw me as a vessel, as something that carried a weapon inside me. Nevertheless, do I run from it, _Tom Riddle_? No, because that makes me nothing but a coward! I will not be the stone he builds his world upon, I will be an immovable rock in front of his aversion, and I will not be named after a parasite that he has infested me with. I will be something he does not recognize anymore— never the girl he tortured in the walls of his castle. That is strength, Tom! Not building up a persona just to run away from the truth."

"Do not talk to me in such a way, Petrov," the boy spat, pushing past her and walking ahead of the track. Varya marched after him in fury, prepared to draw her wand if it came down to it, "I am not running around from my past; I am embracing my future. Regardless of how you were treated, you still grew up in the shadow of a spectacular name, whereas I have only ever been lived with a muggle name. _Something even you did not fail to remind me_."

The woods had turned darker, denser, and as the sun faded between the branches, the surroundings turned into a dim gray despite it being so early. Varya bit the inside of her cheek in annoyance, and pushed at the twigs that the boy would let snap in her face. Yes, she had alluded to his name and status multiple times, and yet the girl had only done so to irk him. Now, she understood that it might have been a mistake on her part.

"I never meant anything with it, Tom. You think your name or bloodstatus are things that matter to me?" she groaned, pulling at her hair in frustration, "What matters is the actions you take, and believe me when I say this— nobody liked a dictator."

The boy scorned her as he threw his bag underneath a tree, ruling that this was a place as good as any to rest. They had been hiking for more than an hour, and he could tell by the way the witch hunched her back that last night's antics had wrecked her. Very well, she could rest while he went over the maps again.

He sat on the grass, ignoring the ardent stare, and spread out his papers in front of him. Then, he took out his journal — the one she had given to him — and started jotting down notes eagerly, making sure he had not missed anything.

Varya's eyes darted to his hands, to the way he cradled her gift, and every ounce of anger dissipated from her body and was replaced by the softness of affection. She threw herself to the ground opposite of him and watched as he bit his lip in concentration, writing down whatever thought passed through his mind. She picked at a strand from her shirt, playing with it shyly as she stole glances at Tom.

_Crack!_

Riddle's head snapped towards the sound, and Varya stilled as her nerves untangled in a heap of emotions and panic. Merlin, it could not be the ghoul, right? The witch had let the mine fall back on it, thus ensuring that it would stay trapped until someone reponed the mine. Her dread continued to rise as she watched the line of trees, waiting for whatever horror loomed the forest to pounce upon them.

Then, a white rabbit jumped out and into their clearing, whiskers sniffing at the ground with interest, and Tom growled at it in irritation. He was apprehensive due to the recent events, and had no time for such creatures. As he glanced at Varya, however, he felt his features fall into a frown. The girl had teary eyes as she watched the animal hop around with innocence and wonder.

"I used to have a toy," she began slowly, trying to fight against the memories that were spilling in her mind, "I used to have a white rabbit toy. It was the only happy thing I had in the castle, everything else was dark and somber, and I carried it around with me everywhere. It probably still is somewhere between my old stuff at Scholomance."

Tom nodded, and yet he felt uncomfortable at the way she was spilling with emotions, unsure how to react to such a naive confession. Quite frankly, the boy could care less about her pet toy. Then, rheumy eyes that swirled with chaos and grief met his, and the boy's breath hitched.

"Do you believe in omens?" Varya asked, her mind swirling as she connected the dots.

"Somewhat," Tom admitted, "Although not many wizards are skilled in Divination, and most just strive to make a penny off of complete bogus."

The girl shook her head, "No. Not those omens— black magic symbols. They are objects that manifest themselves in our lives and have deep connections to our past, present, and future. For instance, you go along the street, and then suddenly, you see a man wearing the kind of trenchcoat that your favorite teacher used to bring to class. And the next day, you find out your teacher is dead. Odious things, really, but very much true. Fate always send out signals to those in distress, warning when they mess with their own destiny."

"What are you getting at?"

"I killed the rabbit," she breathed with agony, "At Wool's orphanage, I killed the white rabbit. The only happiness I was allowed during my childhood, and then the next day, everything changed— you found out about the Obscurus, and you wrecked my mind until it unleashed, and now I barely have any time left."

Tom slammed his journal shut, "You are not dying, Petrov. All you have to do is make a Horcrux, and everything would be solved, and yet you refuse to do so despite never carrying much for anyone but yourself. You do not want to kill? Such lies...admit it to yourself that you are not scared of dying, but of living. You do not know how to tame the Obscurus, so part of you believes it is better to succumb to something as weak as mortality."

Varya gaped at him, wrath piling in her heart, and yet when she opened her mouth to fight back, she found herself mute— he was right. The girl had no problem in being selfish, and she could kill whichever acolyte of Grindelwald's without remorse. However, the thought of doing such a thing terrified her. Not because she was afraid of murder, but because the witch did not know how to handle a life of immortality. She would have to watch the world crumble, see everyone die before her eyes.

Everyone except him.

It twisted with agony, her heart, as she realized that eternity with Tom Riddle was more terrifying than death— a never-ending loop of torment at his hands, controlled by his manipulation and mind games in hopes that perhaps, one day, he could come to love her as she loved him. But that was nothing more than a fantasy.

The white rabbit.

She had killed it at his demand, and in a way, it had been a symbol of her innocence perishing at his hands in more ways than one. It had been an avalanche of torment afterward— her love for him surfacing, his discovery of her powers, Grindelwald's secret, her memories being broken. That day in Tom Riddle's room at Wool's Orphanage, Varya Petrov had broken the last thread of naivety and virtue that had tied her to her past.

Now, she was a mess of fragmented pieces, and no matter how fast her hands scurried the ground to put them together, the edges never fit. He had made sure of that. In the end, Tom had been her undoing.

"We should keep going," her timber quivered with desolate sound, and the boy surveyed her as she got up to her feet and dusted the grass off of her pants. Tom could tell that she was upset at him, and he bit his cheek in frustration at her ill temperament.

In his mind, the boy was not doing anything wrong. As a matter of fact, he was offering her something most would bow to him for, a chance to stand by his side as he conquered the world, and to be the two beings that defied time and space. Yet, the girl seemed to have no interest, and his heart twisted with a feeling he did not quite recognize. Hurt.

Even so, Riddle packed everything up with a simple charm, and followed her through the woods as they continued their journey. It took them a while to get past the trees, but when they did, they saw the fortress dominating over the mountains.

It was an ancient building, and in some way, it reminded the girl of her academy, yet the walls were made of antiquated stone, and it watched over the village from rocky edges. It was of medieval times, and perhaps, once there had been lords and ladies residing behind its security. Now, it was a ghost tower.

"You said it should be somewhere around here?" the girl asked, and then Tom turned to her quickly.

"Yes, but..." he glanced back at the fortress, "I do not think you should come with me."

"Are you serious? You think I would betray you or something?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, I do." He admitted eventually, at the girl scoffed at his audacity before throwing her hands up in the air, "This is something I must do for myself. It seems the forests are clear now that we have dealt with the ghoul, and I would much prefer to be left alone."

Then, he turned and headed into the opposite side of the woods alone, not even giving the girl a chance to retort.

"Fine, you bastard!"

But Tom was long gone, and if he heard the insult, he only ignored it. Varya huffed, then glanced at the fortress before making her way to it. The rain had started coming in, and she was not about to wait for him outside. If he wanted to be paranoic, then fine, the girl would simply let him risk his own life. Perhaps, she should free the ghoul and give him a scare.

The climb to the stone building had been rough, but the girl had gotten used to pushing her body beyond her limit, so when the witch entered the main lobby, she did not even feel the strain.

The inside of the fortress was grim, and the walls had been covered in spider webs and dust, making it seem like some sort of ghost castle. Portraits hung on dented nails, and their unmoving faces stared at the girl with boredom craved on their faces. Varya neared on of them, and analyzed its expression— it seemed to be in pain.

The corridors extended to the main chamber, where a dingy wooden table stood in the middle, surrounded by chairs that had been pushed to the side, almost as if whoever had stood there before had left in a hurry, probably to defend the land against an attack.

Varya used a spell to clean the sitting area, and then sat at the table with an upset look. It seemed that whenever she got close to the boy, he tended to push her away, almost as if he was trying to keep her at arm's length at all times. It hurt her, and her hopes were slowly fading, yet she could only try holding on onto the edge as she dangled above a nasty fall.

Tom Riddle— a unique character in his own way, with trauma that had locked him inside his own mind and destroyed his soul, a boy who had never seen love, and because of that could not recognize it around him. Intelligence beyond his years, and yet the emotional maturity of a middle school child. She wondered what it would take for him to break.

_A door slammed in the distance._

Varya got up to her feet, and although the idea of Tom Riddle coming back was on the top of her head, something told her this presence was no acquaintance of hers. Her hand gripped her wand tighter, and she adjusted her knife belt better before slithering to one of the walls. Her hands gripped some of the stones that stood out, and she found herself climbing swiftly until she reached the woody beams that held the roof together. They creaked as she stepped, and the girl had to hold tightly not to fall, but she was out of human view.

"I lost sight of them in the woods, MacDuff is still trailing after the boy, but the girl vanished into thin air! They found Sylvia's body in Paris, and one of her bodyguards said that it had been him that had killed her— those little rats. They used magic on him; I am sure of it! Percival would have never betrayed us," the woman growled as she barged into the room, and Varya stiffened as she recognized her— Miss Pichler.

The Eastern witch's heart saturated with wrath as she watched the woman that had made her childhood a living hell advance into the room, a young scribe trailing behind her as she barked orders at him.

"If we fail to capture her here as well, Grindelwald will not be pleased and—," the woman stopped and looked at the clean sitting area. Varya almost cursed at herself for the mistake, "Reginald, have you dusted the tables?"

"No, ma'am," the scribe responded promptly, then looked around in a frenzy. His eyes flashed upwards, and then they widened as he saw the girl on the wooden beams, but Varya raised a finger to her lips.

If her assumptions were right, then this boy would be just as mistreated as she was, as Pichler was not the nicest woman, and the girl doubted she had newfound love for children in her heart. Reginald blinked at her in confusion; then, his eyes darted back to the woman. He stayed quiet.

"The Obscurial must be around here, then. Go and find MacDuff, bring him back here, and tell him to kill the boy; Grindelwald said nothing about keeping him alive," the woman chuckled sadistically, and then she took out her wand, taking a battle stance.

The boy nodded and ran out of the room. If he knew what was good for him, he would not come back. Varya debated her next move, unsure what to do with the woman. If anything, Tom would be able to guard himself, perhaps even kill MacDuff, and yet something told her his obsession with the diadem would have him too focused to notice he was being tracked. Fuck, she had to get out of here.

Pichler had never been a great dueler, and yet her voice was enough to make the witch's mind break, as she represented the most horrific moments of her childhood. With that advantage, it would be hard to tell what approach was best, and the mere idea of being in her presence was sending Varya over the edge.

The girl felt her soul crack as she watched the older woman walk around the chamber, eyes darting from each corner, and a cloud of anxiety nested itself in her mind. It was as if her lungs could no longer function, and her skin buzzed with uncharacteristic terror. No, no, no. She could not face Pichler— she was not ready; she probably would never be.

Her breathing accelerated as the rain hit the stone walls harder, and the wind picked up its speed as the witch fell into a hurricane of violence and despair, and her skin covered in goosebumps almost as if bugs were crawling all over. She could not breathe.

_She needed Tom. Where was he?_

Almost as if on cue, the doors opened, and Richard MacDuff pushed Riddle inside, who was holding something to his chest almost as if his life depended on it. It glistened in the light, and Varya concluded he had found the diadem.

Nevertheless, how had he been captured? He was too smart for it, and could have easily killed the old wizard on the spot.

Tom groaned as he was pushed to the ground, and had to bite down his anger from slipping through his pores, knowing he could well destroy both wizards on the spot. His eyes trailed the room, and when he could not spot the younger witch, he stilled— had he come too late?

No, they would not kill her, and they would have tried to discard of him if they had known where she was. He wanted to twist their heads on the spot, make them scream out in agony as their flesh sizzled under his Hellfire, and let their wails be a song he hummed in content.

Then, he felt something knocking at his temple, almost as if someone was trying to read his mind or, perhaps, send a signal. Varya. He glanced upward out of the corner of his eyes and saw midnight hair move in the shadows, and he stilled when mortified eyes met his. She was panicking.

"Where is the girl?" taunted Pichler as she came closer to the boy, grasping his face in her hands, "Ah, a pretty one she has found. No wonder she followed you into the woods so aimlessly, must have been quite the easy prey, huh? After all, I made sure to break her long before you ever laid eyes on her."

Then, the boy felt something around his wrists, and his eyes enlarged in panic— magic bounds, "That should keep him controlled. No point in ending up like Sylvia," stated Richard bitterly, then he flicked his wand and brought a chair to them, dragging Riddle to sit down. The diadem was still in his bag, and he wrestled against the old man as he tried to take it away from him, "This one has a few screws loose, I reckon."

"Speaking of Sylvia," Pichler muttered, then lowered herself until she met his eyes. Tom did not recognize her from any balls, with features fallen in wrinkles and madness, and gray hair pulled in a tight bun above her head crest, yet she reminded him of the Matron at Wool's Orphanage, "What did you do to her, you little rat?"

Tom gave her a taunting smirk, then hoisted an eyebrow defiantly, "I cannot recall."

The slap was brutal, and Varya's hand flew to her mouth as she watched Pichler strike Riddle. Tears pooled in her ducts and overflow like a tsunami of grief, and her body froze completely as memories of brutal mistreatment haunted her to insanity.

The darkness crawled to the surface and sizzled in her fingertips, and her breathing fell in an amalgam of patterns as the anxiety and terror spilled in her rotten bloodstream.

Her limbs felt lifeless, as if she had no control over them, and she could not move as she watched Pichler raise her wand toward Tom's face, who, despite all, was as calm as the surface of a lake during summertime.

"You will talk, you fool! Or Merlin help me, I will torture you into breaking," she bellowed, and then with one more defiant eye-lock, Macduff waved his wand, " _Crucio_!"

Tom Riddle rattled against the chair in immense pain, his body convulsing as his mind broke down under the torture, and despite all his ocean-tide eyes filled with the water of the Dead Sea, and betrayed nothing of importance with uncharacteristic loyalty and composure. In twenty years of battle, MacDuff had never seen anyone stay utterly silent under the unforgivable curse, and yet Riddle remained an impassive stone statue, the only telling being the way his body twitched as his nervous system betrayed him.

It was horrific, and the older sorcerers exchanged a look of uncertainty— this boy must have been some sort of sociopath to bite back such agony, and yet neither knew that physical pain could not break a soul like his, one that had been tormented beyond recognition by years of loneliness and depression.

Varya cried silently, and cursed her own body and trauma for making her unable to move. She fought against her barriers with all might, her heart splitting at the sight of Tom's torture, and her shadows whipped against the walls fiercely as something cracked inside her— it was coming out in heaps of macabre silence, and slithering through the air as it enveloped the building. Nevertheless, nobody noticed the dimming light, nor the fury of the wind as it tore down the surrounding trees.

"Speak!" Pichler's voice resonated through the chamber, echoing and following the whirl of the wind and expanding, and yet Tom only threw her a pained smirk. _Just a little longer, a little longer, and his plan would have succeeded_.

MacDuff then took notice of the wind, and he glanced outside at the apocalyptic scenery, the clouds of absolute black that had circled the estate and the hurricane that had destroyed the vegetation, "Shit, Pichler. Her powers—"

The woman glanced outside, then back at the boy who was still convulsing, "You absolute roach! You knew what you were doing; you had us trail after you intentionally just to— oh, _oh_! Such a devious little devil, are you not? Very well, perhaps it is time for someone to put you out of your misery. _Avada_ —"

The inner wall of the castle blasted to bits, and a chunk of the wall hit MacDuff instantly, splattering his organs all over the floor in a mess of liquids and tissue. Tom gasped as his nerves relieved him of pain, and he kicked himself back, breaking the wooden chair against the stone floor. His ties came undone, and he plucked the bag off of the floor and slid beneath a table. Now, all he had to do was watch it unfold.

Pichler screamed as she felt a cold hand against her nape, and then her body flew through the room before hitting a chair and blasting it to bits. Her dark eyes raised to the ground, and fell on the petite body that stood in the center of a tornado of dark mist, a wind of fury and emotions.

The wind was unforgiving, and the Obscurus lashed against the pavement, cracking every stone on the floor, so much so that it looked as if Hell was finally rising, and demons would spawn out of the darkness that circulated in the room.

"There we go," Pichler cackled madly, "At last, you are the same pitiful vessel that destroyed Nurmengrad Castle all those years ago, unable to control that parasite as it eats you alive. Do you feel it? Do you feel the way it is melting your insides as we speak?"

Varya's figure raised its hand, and yet the girl had been lost behind a screen of obscure identities, and the shadows of darkness extended to the woman, clamping against every limb and raising her in the air. It approached slowly, menacing, and white eyes darted to the witch's figure as the black mist started pulling at each extremity.

The caretaker's scream ricocheted off of every wall as she felt her tissue start breaking and tearing, and the force was slow, teasing the pain before applying another lash of torture as it tried to break her into pieces just like she had broken the girl.

Blood started splattering against the walls, the pavement, and it hit Varya's form with a resonating note. Pichler's wails continued to fill the room, and her face grew red as the blood vessels in her eyes popped due to the intense torment, and then Varya's lips twitched upwards in a macabre smile. All it took was the flick of a finger, and the eyes burst completely, retina hanging from the socket and reddish liquid pooled from the open wounds.

It was not enough; it was not a fair trade for what she had done, so Varya took out her knife and advanced towards the witch, then she slowly inserted it into the open wound before twisting it painfully, watching as the flesh scraped off of the insides and onto her knife.

Pichler's cried were so sonorous the crows darted to the sky, and they flew in the hurricane of madness that she had brought. The lightning struck the nearby trees, and all was a swirl of viciousness as sixteen years of trauma bubbled to the surface.

She laughed so chillingly, and Tom only watched in excitement as the Obscurus ripped off one arm from the woman, sending it against the stone in a daze of ripped flesh. Each limb came off, the tissue and tendons dangling from the open wounds, and the Pichler's torso fell to the floor, her nervous system already shutting down to the immense torture.

Death covered her in a painful veil, and the scene was so grotesque that all seven captains of Hell would have denied the witch entrance, and then the light flew from Pichler's eyes, and a death mark covered her face. Each Obscurial left a mark on their victim's body, and Tom crawled closer to glance at it— _her own imagery, a picture created by her torment, a skull, and a snake_.

The shadows shattered, and retracted themselves into the fragile body of Varya Petrov as the girl fell to her knees, wailing as clarity settled back in. Her breath came in pants, and when her tasmanian eyes took in the mauled body in front of her, bile rose in her throat, and then her mouth opened in a soul-splitting scream.

_She had killed someone._

Her frantic hands pulled at her bloodied clothes, and she whimpered as the metallic smell filled the room. Varya raised to her feet, and her vision was clouded by a storm of resentfulness and self-hatred. Her mind collapsed in on itself, and the emotions ate her raw with a rotting cascade of nothingness.

Tom's arms grabbed her, and she gasped at the way his warmth seemed to soothe her cold heart somewhat, and that was when the last piece of her soul clung to his in a desperate attempt for comfort, an intertwining of anguish and despair, "I killed her— oh my god, I...no, no, no."

Her words jumbled in an incoherent speech, and the boy pulled her close as he sheltered her eyes from the gory surroundings and proceeded to lead her shaking body out of the room and into the hallway, "You have to calm down, Varya."

And yet she could not. Not as he dragged her through outrooted trees, not as she saw carcasses of animals that had fallen to her hurricane on anger, and the only thing she prayed for is that the village had been far enough to avoid the damage.

Tom covered her bloodied clothes in his coat, and then pulled her through the back door of the Inn and up the stairs quickly, hand pressed against her mouth to repress the pitiful wails that fell in sonorous droplets.

He pulled her into his room, then shut the door behind and let the girl's trembling figure fall on his bed as she clung to his shirt in utter torment. Varya could no longer see nor feel anything around her, nothing except the way he held her, and so she pulled him closer in a desperate attempt to salvage the last of her mentality.

"Tom," the way she cried his name made his insides twist, and if he had been able to feel guilt at her state, he would have. A part of him told him he should not have left traces of his magic back in Paris, should not have let Grindelwald's army follow them to Albania in an effort to have her Obscurus unleash against someone and kill them. And yet, it was the right thing to do.

_It was the only way he could save her._

_But was it worth saving a broken being?_

She crashed her lips against his in a desperate need of comfort, and he responded just as eagerly, trying to hide the way his mind was slowly dissipating into a mess of nothingness and uncertainty. He was a devil, he had hurt her beyond comprehension, and his whole being screamed with self-disgust despite Tom's attempt at justifying his doings.

His hands went to her buttons, and he struggled to take off the bloody clothes, the admittance of her murder, and he threw her shirt in a corner as he rose over her and placed lips against the dried red liquid on her chest. Varya whimpered and bit back a cry, mind unsure if it came from a place of pleasure due to him or of hurt due to herself, and yet as everything tangled together; she found herself numb to anything except his touch.

The blood on her body felt cold, wrong, and it burned. She closed her eyes and saw death with a lunatic beam as he brought his sachet down on her, and if he had azure eyes and soft curls beneath the dark hood, Varya spoke nothing of it.

Her nails dragged themselves up to his neck and into his hair, and the witch pulled at shadow curls until the boy let out a painful groan, and yet something in him twitched with excitement at the feeling. Tom's eyes met hers, and a silent promise transpired between the two— they were each other's niche, a safe place outside of their worlds of trauma.

"Make me forget," her timber cracked as he placed cold lips against her breast, and circled it with need of something he had not quite figured out, and his hands scrubbed at the blood she was covered in, almost as if painting his own apocalyptic image.

Hands imprinted on her body, and they covered in erythraean pigment as he tried to get the source of madness off of her, yet some part of him like her as such— bloodied, pained, the face of a killer. Just like him.

She felt her Obscurus crack through, and the wind picked up, and shadows danced above their bed as Tom unbuckled his pants. His tongue darted upwards from her core to her collarbones, and she whimpered as he bit down on her skin before pulling down her lace and exposing her completely. He inserted one finger, and Varya threw her head back in absolute ecstasy as everything faded into nothing but his touches, and her soul spat out the last few coherent thoughts.

Riddle's mouth flew to her ears, and he bit down on her lobe before asking in a raspy voice, "What do you want me to do?"

"Everything," the crack in her voice made his mind implode with pleasure, and he liked her just like that— vulnerable and needy under his control. So he positioned himself eagerly, and took no time as he slipped himself inside.

Tom groaned at the foreign sensation, and bit down on his lip as the girl moved her hips against his length with a needy sound, then grabbed his hands and placed them around her neck. His lips fell in a glistening red mess of wonder, and he tightened his grip and kept eye contact as he thrust into her for the first time. Then, almost as if possessed by something, his moves became ravenous, and he slid in and out with absolute need and moaned as she tightened around him and gasped for air.

Varya's eyes sparkled with defiance, and yet her lips were open as she felt the boy move into her with force, and then he pulled out and grabbed her by the hair to meet his lips fiercely, "The blood," she whined against his lips, and Tom looked around in panic before grabbing a glass of water from the table and his shirt. He drenched it inside, then turned the girl around and flush against him, and continued pressing kisses to her as he scrubbed the redness from her body in a rush.

Varya threw her head back as she felt him pull at her skin, taking away the admittance of sin with rough strokes, and then she felt him slide back into her core harshly, before he groaned against her neck, "Fuck. It feels good."

He rotated his hips and threw the rag to the side, then grasped at her chest as he made her move along him rapidly, enjoying the way her head bobbed as he continued controlling her. How could she say she was not his? How could she say so when he had complete control over her body?

Riddle pushed a hand on her spine, and the girl fell to her hands in front of him, and then he grabbed her hips as he quickened his pace, eyes closing in utter pleasure as he felt her tremble underneath, and her walls constricted as her mind drowned in bliss. The world around them faded into nothing but obscurity, and he pumped himself with a frantic desire as he felt the coldness of her shadows trail his figure.

She moved to face him, not caring as he growled at the defiance, and pulled him in until their bodies had nothing between them. His face fell in the crook of her neck, and she moved her hips along with his, nails scraping against his back as she felt her climax near. The muscles of his arms swelled as he gripped her waist and groaned against her, and then he grabbed her knee and put her leg above his shoulder, trying the new angle.

One of his fingers trailed her thighs and then played with her bundle of nerves, and that was enough for Varya to feel her climax ripple through everything, and stars danced around her as the pain and torment fell into oblivion, rapture taking over her features like a tsunami. Tom grabbed her chin and forced their eyes to meet, needing to see the way he made her feel, the poison swimming in her scorpion eyes, the way her lips parted into a whimper.

Then, he continued thrusting in her, his moves more grave now as he tried to find his own release, and the girl groaned at her sensitivity, yet the pain mixed with the pleasure and, frankly, the only thing that mattered was watching his eyes scrunch in madness and his jaw set as he felt the wave of blissfulness touch everything in him.

Such a gentleman to the world, and yet he pounded her with animalistic need, and his groans grew raspier as he threw his head back and enjoyed his nerves light up the sky behind his eyes, and he pulled out just in time to feel his climax ripple through his body.

Varya watched him, heart pounding as she realized that she had been the one to take this first moment away from him, the first girl he had been intimate with, and so she straightened up and kissed him deeply as he moaned against her mouth, trying to taste his pleasure. His hands gripped her as if she was the only thing keeping him alive, and perhaps she was, and then they fell beside each other in bed, gasping for air.

_They belonged to each other._


	48. chapter forty-six

Her eyelashes fluttered open as she felt the first ray of sun hit her face, and her body was shivering all over except for where Tom's hand was around her naked waist. Varya bit back a gasp as clarity settled in, and her legs pulled together as she remembered the previous night.

She was insane, truly, and wondered what the boy would make of it when he woke up. Her tar eyes carried the glow of galaxies as she watched his sleeping figure. Tom seemed peaceful, collected, and dark eyelashes stuck together and covered reservoirs of marine blue. His lips were slightly parted, and soft whistles came from his mouth as he breathed slowly. His arm was still around her, and for a second, she allowed herself to nest her forehead in his chest, and his grip tightened.

His scent was invading, and it wreaked havoc against her pulse as it plunged, and his face nested in the shoulder for the briefest moment before his eyes shot awake, and he pushed himself away from her groggily.

Tom got up from the bed in a hurry, and he pulled a towel from the nightstand to wrap around himself, avoiding her eyes altogether. His hair was a mess of tangles, and she could spot the few marks she had left on him.

"Morning," Varya spoke shyly, then dragged the duvet over her body to hide. Tom grabbed his clothes from the wardrobe then dressed himself quickly, not sparing her a glance as he ran to his bathroom and slammed the door behind.

He was so crude, the girl realized. And her heart ached as she remembered how Icarus had treated her after they had spent their first night together. The Lestrange boy had made sure that he had not been too harsh with her, had helped her dress as he pressed soft kisses to her cheek, and then had sneaked into the kitchen to get them some treats. Varya missed the boy, even as a friend, and the way he had treated her. Even so, it was better for his mental state that they stayed away from each other for the time being.

The shower stopped running, and a few seconds later, Riddle was out in the room with damp hair that he dried with a white towel. He was wearing a white dress shirt and black pants, and he fumbled to pick a tie from his collection, yet jittery hands could not seem to knot it properly. He turned towards her, then approached without saying anything else, and pointed at his tie, almost like a command.

"Um," she began as she pulled the duvet closer, "I am not wearing anything."

Riddle scoffed, then grabbed one of his sweaters off of the desk and forced it down her head as she yelped. Varya fought against him, but he continued to press it down, "Just take the bloody sweater!"

The girl yelped, and eventually poked her hands through the openings, then he grabbed her hand and pulled her to his feet. The attire almost reached her knees, and covered enough that she would not feel shy. The top of her head barely came to his chin, so she stared at his chest to avoid his stare, and saw the way it rose and fell in rapid motions. Was he just as nervous?

"All right," the witch mumbled, and tried to hide her flush by looking at the boy's tie as she worked with the material. The sweater smelled of mahogany and fresh soap, and her lips pursed as her cheeks seemed to be on fire now. Suddenly, his hand went to her face, and she girl threw herself back in a mess of splutters, "Why would you do that?"

Tom looked at her, perplexed by her off behavior, "You are extremely red; I thought you might have a fever. Our journey back is long, and I do not want to be around you if you have a cold."

"You are such an arse, Merlin!"

"For taking care of my own health? Hardly—"

The girl picked his belt from the floor and lashed it at him, earning a growl as it hit his waist, and then he grabbed it with his hand and pulled at it until her body slammed in his. He grabbed her hip to steady her, then pressed his hand in her face to get the witch to look at him.

"Stop that."

His voice was raspy, that of an early morning, and there was still some sleep in his eyes as he looked down at her. Varya felt his thumb press against her hip and swallowed grimly.

"I do not take orders from you."

"You sure did last night."

_She slapped him._

Varya gasped as Riddle's hand flew to his cheek, and he stared at her in astonishment. There were a few seconds of silence before the boy tried to grab her, and she slipped underneath his hand and ran to her room, bare feet shuffling on the cold floor. The Eastern girl shut the door right as Tom made way to grab her, then locked it with a spell and backed away as he pounded angered fists against it.

"Open the door, Petrov!"

But Varya only stared at it with wide eyes, then pivoted around and grabbed a few garments. She turned on her shower, drowning out the boy's screams. The innkeeper would surely tell him to quiet down soon enough. Her body passed the mirror above her sink, and then she stopped to look at how her skin had been covered in bruises. Some of them had come from the explosion of the fortress' wall, and some were in the shape of hands and lips.

As the boiling water scalded her skin, Petrov let her mind wander to what had happened last night— she had murdered MacDuff and Pichler in cold blood. Her eyes watered at the memory, and her hand flew to her mouth as she bit back a pained sob. This was not who she was supposed to be; she could not let herself fall into the black pit of darkness that was her Obscurus.

And yet, she felt no remorse at having butchered them, regardless of how grotesque it had been. They had turned her into the monster that she was today, and it was only fair that they felt the consequences of their actions. In a way, they had come full circle.

Varya Petrov had never wanted to be a killer, and yet her destiny had made her precisely that, and her hands shook as she glanced at them. For a moment, they were covered in nothing but blood, and she bit back a scream of terror as she looked at the running water— _liquid red_.

It pooled at her feet, and she stared blankly at the way it contrasted against her skin, slowly filling the tub as her body shook. Varya had been covered in it the previous night, in blood, and her mind seemed to crack.

She shook her head, then the image reverted back to normal, and her heart stilled as she regained clarity—enough of that. The girl stepped outside into the cold air, then wrapped herself in a tour, and pinned her wet hair in a ponytail.

As she dove into her suitcase to pick up a dress for their train back to Paris, she stopped and glanced at the green sweater Riddle had given her. Without thinking about it twice, she pulled it over a dress shirt and her black skirt, and smiled at the peacefulness it brought to her heart.

Her luggage got packed with a quick charm, and she dragged it out of the room and downstairs, where Riddle was standing against the doorframe of the entrance. His eyes were dark, and she could tell he was still upset at the slap, so she made her way slowly, testing the waters.

Tom turned his eyes to her, then huffed and walked ahead and through the market, eyes on the train station that they were supposed to reach. Varya ran after him softly, and yet her lips turned upwards at his gloomy mood.

They embarked the train swiftly, and Riddle grabbed her luggage and dragged it to their compartment without saying a word. Once inside, he threw his small bag on the top bunk and climbed upwards before taking his usual position— feet dangling over the edge, book in hand, silent.

Varya placed her belongings on the lower one, then glanced up at him, "Are you going to Nott's place?"

His eyebrow furrowed in irritation, but his pupils remained on the pages of his book, "No, you are not coming with me."

"Yes, I am," she said with finality. "I have nowhere else to go— I told Della and Felix that I had business to take care of in Romania, and besides, I am sure Maxwell would not mind my company. He has taken a liking to me."

Tom glanced upwards at that, "Has he?"

She was wearing his sweater, he realized, and his lips almost twitched upwards at that. Good, as it should be. Varya should always wear his clothes so that everyone knew she belonged to him only.

"Of course, he is quite the sensitive boy— say, how did he end up with the likes of you anyway? I can understand Avery, Lestrange, Malfoy, and Selwyn, but the other two have always been a mystery to me."

"Each league must have its representatives for each skill. They approached me, and I welcomed them for their unique achievements and prestigious names. No Knight is useless, and each of them has been pushed into their beliefs by their experience," Tom explained, then glanced outside. The train had taken off. "I would not have surrounded myself with brainless baboons, and although none of them can reach my achievements, they are all skilled in their own departments."

"You are so arrogant," huffed the girl, and yet she had to admit that Tom was brilliant, and she had never seen a man as devoted to his cause as him, "And that is so vague. What pushed Nott and Rosier into joining you? They are not prejudiced like the rest, nor do they have a taste for torture and murder."

"Nott is a visionary in his own way, and my idealism was something that attracted him. He knew he would never be able to handle the crudeness of reality. Still, if he joined me, he could stand by my side as I conquered everything," Tom flipped a page of his book in an effort to appear disinterested in the girl, yet his eyes kept flicking to her face, "Rosier...I could never quite figure it out. He is a bit, say, unstable, and has a wish for danger. I believe that his mind is a very dark place; that is why he drowns everything out by carrying a flask of fire whiskey around."

"You could always achieve what you want through politics— power comes in many forms, and all of you are charming enough to make your way to the top without murdering people," Varya said, and her spine chilled at the way such a macabre conversation flowed so smoothly between them.

Tom leaned over the railing and looked at her, "Perhaps, but all of us have a craving for darkness, for blood, and surely you do not believe it can be satiated by mundane means. We want total control, and none of us will stop until we achieve it."

Varya fell in silence, and his gaze was heavy on her as she avoided it, "I am still coming to Nott's place."

With a roll of his eyes, Riddle went back to reading his book, and let the girl fall back into her daydream— or nightmare, whichever sounded more appealing.

***

Maxwell Nott waited for them at the entrance of his family's Manor, dressed in a ravishing suit and with his hair styled neatly. He screamed of refinement and an ode to the intellectualism of the 19th century, so posh it was almost sickening. He was the archivist, the fifteen-year-old genius that collected every bit of information for Riddle, and because of that, his chartreuse eyes glistened with a cosmos of knowledge and broodiness.

A car approached the entrance of his yard, and he walked to the front to greet his guests, making slight note of the vehicle's origin— _a 1938 Mercedes-Benz 770 Grober, launched in 1930 at the Paris Motor Show, and yet only a small number of them were produced, 770 to be exact. They were made in Germany, and the war affected their export to surrounding countries, but the owner of this car did not care._

Rosier opened the door to his car, then stepped outside and threw his head of curls back in the dim rays of the Nottingham sun. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes, and as he let them slide down his defined nose, Nott spotted the telling of one too many drinks.

"I hope you did not drink and then drive; that is reckless," Maxwell said blankly as Ren threw an arm around him and dragged him closer to the car.

"Of course not, sweetheart," the Rosier heir laughed in his ear before opening the back passenger seat and letting Varya Petrov step out into the open, and then Tom Riddle came out from the driver's side with irritation gracing his porcelain features.

The girl beamed at Nott, and the boy gave her a courteous nod back, only to be taken by surprise as she threw her arms around him, pulling him in a tight hug. Maxwell shot his friend a perplexed look, but Renold only shrugged, "Found them in London at the train station, and asked them if they wanted a ride up to your place. Riddle is grumpy, by the way. Try not to piss him off."

Then, he extended his hand to Tom, who placed the car keys in with a grunt, and stormed off inside without saying much else. Renold snickered behind his back, and Nott shot him a glare— he had been testing the waters with their Lord too much lately, and he was lucky that the only thing that came out of the "twat" remark had been a stinging hex cast in the confinement of the Ravenclaw Salon.

Ren shrugged then made his way to the house, tossing the set of keys to a nearby valet and throwing his hands up as he screamed in excitement. The Nott Manor had always been his favorite place to come to during the vacations, as the boy's parents were always on some trip for the Ministry.

Maxwell had been a very secluded boy, as the Nott Maison was deep into the woods and off the regular track, which meant that not many visited his place. With his parents gone most of the time, the boy had fallen between pages of books as a source of comfort, and that had given birth to his insatiable need for knowledge. It was not until he had met Nicholas Avery that the boy had started socializing, and now, the Knights gathered at his place each spring break.

"I hope my presence does not disturb," remarked Varya, who had suddenly become self-conscious of the fact that she had invited herself to his place. However, the girl honestly had nowhere else to go, and part of her did not want to be away from Riddle either.

"Of course, you are not disturbing. It completely slipped my mind to invite you, as Riddle never mentioned your plans after Albania. I will have the maidens clean up a room for you; meanwhile, you can find everyone else in the main salon," said Nott as he instructed his house-keeper to taker her luggage, then extended his arm as an invitation. Varya grabbed it eagerly; then, they walked towards the Nott Manor.

"Everyone else?"

"Yes, they have all made a habit of visiting during spring break, although I must warn you that such times are, well— you will see."

The Nott estate was less impressive than Rosier's when it came to extravagance, and yet it was still a reputable house amongst the Knights for the freedom that it had. The inside was darker than the French one, more of Victorian architecture, and yet Varya found it suited her taste much more.

The walls were made of reddish stone, and woody sidings held an imposing design that seemed to glisten in the rays, towers dominating each corner of the Manor. It had asymmetrical designs that decorated the outer area, and the entrance was fenced by superfluous pillars.

As soon as they walked into the main salon, multiple pairs of eyes darted to them, and Avery let out a whistle as Varya approached, "I was wondering when you would join."

The girl sat herself on one of the couches, right by Elladora, who nodded in acknowledgment and made no sarcastic remark at her presence. A muggle magazine was between her delicate hands, and yet when Varya glanced at it, she saw intricate texts of poisons and ointments.

Selwyn, with eyes as watchful as a hawk, promptly made a note of her attire, "Is that Riddle's sweater?"

That immediately made Lestrange tip over in his chair, and he plummeted to the ground with a loud thud before scrambling to pick himself up. Hurt eyes dashed to the clothing, and he recognized that sweater immediately. Riddle did not have many clothes, so it was easy to distinguish between them.

The witch felt herself grow hot, "I had to borrow it from him. My shirt was, well— I killed someone!"

Silence fell over the group, and Varya covered her mouth in shock. They all exchanged nimble glances, before Avery scoffed and got up to his feet, "Welcome to the club, young one. Now only Nott has clean hands, it seems. I actually thought he might crack before you, but perhaps that was mistaken on my part. After all, you _are_ an Obscurial."

The Eastern witch was astonished as she realized that she was amongst a group of sociopaths, murderers, and she could only wonder what their stories were. Elladora spoke first, "I poisoned one of my cousins after she threatened to tell my mother about my practice. I only meant to burn her vocal cords, but my skill was not as refined as it is now."

Varya blinked, unsure how to respond, and the next one to speak was Rosier, "Did you know that muggles run trials on psychedelics? Well, they do, except apparently, I go on murder sprees when I take LSD. Something about—"

"Your vices no longer being inhibited!" chipped Avery from the sides.

"Yes, that...Nasty thing to cover, but good old Malfoy here had my back, did he not?"

Abraxas scoffed from the fireplace, where he had sprawled his legs over a dark carpet, and yet he did not bother to add to their fascinating stories. Rosier was a babble mouth, and Elladora was too nonchalant to care about such things being discovered, but he was more reserved. Varya had assumed, at least subconsciously, that the rest of them had had some sort of dark encounter with death considering their positions in Tom's brigade, and yet she had never dwelled on it.

Her heart rested at that, in a wicked way above all— she was no odd piece amongst their collection, and they were all children of Hell in their own way, almost as if Satan had kissed their foreheads and bestowed them a thirst for rampage. Crude, devious little demons that they were, the off-springs of the damned and the corrupted, and above all of them reigned one soul darker than the rest.

Tom Riddle walked into the salon, and every single Knight straightened their posture and bowed their head in acknowledgment. Varya was the only one that frowned at the mechanic behavior, and wondered if this connecting string of ovation and admiration had always been there.

"Did you find it, Riddle?" asked Malfoy, and Tom nodded before placing a beautiful diadem on the coffee table. His eyes darted to Varya for the briefest second; then, he turned towards his Knights.

"It was in the woods, as we expected. Lestrange, you did your job well," Tom acknowledged the boy, and Icarus smirked in satisfaction, "We encountered some issues along the way. I assumed you have all received the letters I have sent on the matter and are aware of where we currently stand."

"Yes, my Lord," said Elladora, her voice serpentinous as she placed her magazine down, then raised to her feet and approached the diadem. Varya saw her in her proper form then— a girl with fire in her soul, with autumn hair nesting the face of a crude witch, "Do you still wish for me to prepare it for your ritual?"

Tom's body stiffened as he felt Varya's judgmental stare on him, almost as if she decried his plan and sent waves of skepticism to his mind. But he could not back down, not when everything was almost in his grasp, and especially not for a girl, regardless of her position in his plans. No, some things were more important.

"Not yet," he found himself saying, and he let out a breath as he saw Petrov's body relax, "We will discuss this later. Right now, I am too exhausted to deal with such things. I prefer to rest and think about our next move when my mind is clear."

"My Lord, what of Grindelwald, though?" questioned Rosier from the couch, and although he still stood on it lazily, his voice was much clearer as he addressed Tom.

Varya did not like how they addressed him as "lord", and she thought that Tom was trying too hard to have superiority over the clique of purebloods. With a distasteful sneer, she recognized it might be something that could crumble easily if Riddle loosened up.

"I suspect he will make a move soon, especially once he realizes Varya murdered some of his most trusted companions. But that will not happen for a while, anyhow. He must only regroup before moving another piece on this chessboard, for he risks losing everything if he is not careful."

Quietness fell over the group, and then Maxwell walked in with a bottle of wine and a tray of glasses, placing it in the middle of the chamber. Rosier was the first to jump to his feet and grab one, popping the bottle open and pouring everyone some of the liquid with a mischievous smirk on his lips.

For the rest of the week, there would be no scheming allowed, not unless it involved too many glasses of champagne and soft touches between sheets. Ren would not allow it.

"Now, as you all know, the next week marks one of the few moments we allow ourselves to live our lives as normal teenagers— drunken nights, courting ladies and gentlemen, throwing an extravagant ball just to flaunt our wealth. I believe that Nott has already sent out the invitations," Ren spoke as he passed all of them their respective glass. Then, he stopped in front of Varya, "And look, we now have a new bird amongst us. How fine that I stumbled into you in London, or Riddle might have tried to keep you away from such a sinful week. But worry not, we will find you a good boy to spend the night with."

Lestrange scoffed at that, and downed his drink before pursing his lips in discontent, "I do not think she would enjoy your parade of unscrupulous behavior," then, honey eyes fell on Varya, "He is filthy, and every year he throws this wretched party of sorts, and drags us all into it."

"Well, you see— I do not remember you objecting to it that much when that pretty young lady had her hand in your—"

"Rosier!"

Varya's eyes twinkled as Lestrange darted to his feet and chased Renold out of the room, and the boy cackled madly at stirring up chaos. Maxwell stood stiffly in the center of the room, his glass barely touching his lips as he frowned.

"Avery?" he asked out of nowhere, then his eyes darted to the uninterested boy that was admiring one of the old axes on the wall. His finger was skimming the edge, a sadistic look on his face. Nicholas pivoted on his feet to face his friend, and his features softened.

"Yes, Nott?"

"Did I agree to this?"

"Of course you did. At least, we assumed that you would when we sent out the invites," Avery smirked with devilry, then he walked over to Varya and sat down next to her, "Now, tell me about this little murder that you committed..."

***

Elladora held onto her elbow as they walked amongst the vast gardens, glancing at the graveyard that stood below Varya's bedroom window. It was odd, the two of them together, but the fiery witch had insisted on promenading the estate during sundown, saying that they had to have a chat.

Varya bit back the repulsion at her presence— they were not friends, she much enjoyed it that way, and yet something told her that the other Slytherin had much to say to her. Even so, the confession was astonishing.

"I love Icarus," Elladora admitted as she watched the sun burn itself out over the horizon, darling birds trailing the sky as the night threatened to spill over the land. Her eyes darted to the Petrov descendant, who frowned deeply at the thought.

It was disturbing how much the idea of Icarus and Elladora unsettled her. It felt wrong, and despite the fact that she did not love the boy, she felt as if someone was stepping in on her territory. Her throat clenched with irritation, but she pushed through the barrier of mild annoyance and thought of something to say.

"Explains why you were such a bitch to me," Petrov mumbled, averting her eyes to the house, where the boys were using their magic to terrorize a rat by swinging it in the air. It was only Rosier, Lestrange, and Avery; meanwhile, the other three were sitting on the veranda and discussing the recent happenings in the wizarding world.

"You did not deserve him, not in the slightest. Despite what you believe, he does love you beyond self, and it is hurtful to me," confessed the girl, "He treated you with nothing but kindness, and had I thought that you would make him happy, I would have done nothing. Yet, it was easy to tell your heart belonged to another."

"I have no clue what you are talking about."

"Spare me the lies, Petrov. Riddle would not give a girl his sweater regardless of how bloodied she was," Elladora scoffed as they continued to walk amongst the flowers. She bent over and plucked a daisy, then set it on fire and watched as it turned to dust. The witch blew it in the wind, and smirked as it scattered away, "I admire you for doing it, though."

"Doing what?" Varya hoisted an eyebrow at the girl, then glanced to Riddle, who was now scanning the horizon with his eyes— his hair ruffled by the soft breeze, collar unfastened as he leaned over the table and sipped on his coffee, arctic irises alive with the speckles of forest green.

"I am not sure myself, but you did something. He used to be more of a tyrant, if you can believe that. Rosier's recent behavior would not have passed last year. Perhaps, he is finally maturing and allowing himself to see those around him as more than accessories. Still, I do not think his psychology would allow him to do that naturally."

"I doubt I had much to do with it; he always reminds me how little he cares for me."

"Well, maybe he does not care for you," Selwyn's words stung her, "It does not matter, though. All he needs is someone to care for him, to show him that he is worthy of it. He thinks the only way he can earn attention by acting out. Childish, is it not?"

"And you let this child guide you, then?"

"Do not be mistaken, his incapacity to function as a normal human being, to let feelings sway him, that is exactly what I used to look for in a leader when I came to Hogwarts. Most of us never had parents who were affectionate with us, so we looked for those qualities in a ruler. Riddle is a brilliant man, truly, and I will stand by his side until Hell breaks loose, even after. But..." Elladora stopped, her throat constricting with dread. If Tom ever found out about her words, she would be dead on the spot, yet her instinct told her to trust Varya, "I want a family at some point, I want to someone to fall in love with me like every other stupid girl in our year, and that will never happen if he stays like this. Do you think he would allow us to pursue our happiness? Never. He has so much potential, but he needs a guiding hand."

"Why must a woman fix a man?" blurted Varya, irritation bubbling at her skin, "Why should I care for any of your lives when you have done nothing but play with my mind since I came here? I owe nothing to you, nor him."

"But you love him, and that is enough for you to want what is best. You are not fixing him, per se, just showing him that he is worthy of someone's admiration for who he is, and not the terror he will bring to the world."

Varya sighed, then closed her eyes in an attempt to calm herself down. She did not want to take on such a burden, and yet what Elladora said was right— she loved Riddle, and the idea of him becoming the monster fate wanted him to be made her eyes tear up. The way he had kissed her, the way he had held her that night as her mind crumbled between their bodies, there was something so sinister about the way she cared for Tom.

"You are devious to betray him like this," was the next thing that left Varya's mouth, and Selwyn frowned.

"I only do what I must to look out for myself. I am a woman, and unfortunately, that matters least to most, and so I have devised my own mechanisms of self-preservation. I associate myself with what I believe will get me further in life," Elladora confessed, her tone fallen to a speech, "Poison, like me, is stealthy, untraceable if done correctly. I cannot battle men, but I will always outsmart them. You must learn a few things in a world run by men, and you cannot pity them when you stomp on their graves, because they would dig yours with no bother."

"That is a gruesome train of thought."

"Perhaps, but it is the truth. They get away with much more than we do, so we scheme and we betray to advance, because our minds are the most powerful weapon," then, they started walking back to the rest of the group, "I poisoned you, and I was villainized by you, and yet you turned a blind eye to what the rest of the group has done, because it is easier to excuse the wrongdoings of a handsome face and devilish smile."

"And you think me making Riddle more susceptible to emotions will change that?" scoffed Varya, although part of her admired Selwyn's defiance and self-reliance. She was a woman that would go far.

"I believe that using your femininity to tempt him into reforming his doings will benefit the both of us. But I must warn you; Riddle is no emotionless being. Behavior like his is actually fueled by a barrel of explosive, and if you set light to his fuse, he might blow you both to bits."

"What are you trying to get at?"

"He could become infatuated, obsessive, he will think of you as a possession and a way to relieve his constant ache—image finally seeing the light after years of darkness, would you want to let that go?"

"No," whispered the Eastern witch as her heart plummeted to her hand at the realization. Yes, she had seen the first signs in Riddle's obsessiveness come forward during their trip. It was only rational that he would turn to such behavior. Tom did not understand love, so he would never recognize the feeling, and simply admit to it. If there were even a trace of happiness in his world of constant anger and despair, his soul would cling to it desperately.

"So, tread carefully."

Almost as if he had heard their conversation, Tom got up from his table and headed their way, hands clasped between his back as he reached the two young women. Elladora bowed her head silently, before flashing her roommate a knowing look, and marched to join Malfoy and Nott in their debate on the on-going muggle war.

"I did not think I would ever see the two of you together without your wands pointed in each other's faces," the boy said as he towered over her, and Varya took a moment to appreciate his mesmerizing beauty.

He was wearing a ruffled dress shirt, a semblance of aristocracy, and medieval royalty. His hair, made of webs of darkness, blew in the wind as his soft waves skimmed his forehead, and his irises carried poetic melancholy in Egyptian blue. The last few rays of sunlight caught on his blanche skin, and he turned his head to gaze at the horizon as it painted in soft tangerine of twilight hours. His profile was breathtaking, and yet his features always carried the sadness of a lost soul, so painstakingly chilling, so romantic in nature.

Riddle had once said that he had made a cloak of mist and a crown out of his pain, and that he wore it proudly as he became a prince of the damned. Oh, how true it was, as he stood against the effervescent scenery, made of macabre shadows and painful memories. He was a man that had used his torment on a spindle, and had fashioned himself his armor against the world.

Varya's breath caught in her throat as the wind rumpled their clothes, and they stood on green grass looking at each other with a symphony of unspoken words passing between them, "It surprised me as well."

"You seem flustered," he admitted, then his hand flew to pick a strand from her hair, and he pushed it behind her ear, "I hope last night did not make things awkward."

He savored the rouge that coated her cheeks, and his wicked soul twisted at the control he had over her, at how easily the witch reacted to his touches and affection. He immensely enjoyed toying with her, "No," she spluttered, then tried to make sense of her thoughts, "I— it felt nice. I..."

"Did it?" his timbre fell into something lower, raspier, and he gazed at her with a devilish smirk, "Glad to know, I would have thought so as well by the sounds you made."

Varya gasped, then made to push past him in embarrassment, but he pulled her back with a click of his tongue against his cheek.

"I was not quite done talking; it is rude to interrupt me," Tom responded, "As you might have heard, Nott is throwing a ball in three days, and I reckon you do not have a partner yet, no?"

"I do not."

"Then, perhaps, we should go together," he proposed, and Varya bit her cheek to prevent the scream of delight from spilling out. Of course, she always thought he had the best intention, unaware that it was only the boy's way of making sure Rosier did not parade her around to other men, "It is only suitable that we do so. After all, we will be the most powerful wizards in attendance."

"Is that the only reason you are asking me?"

Tom's face almost slipped in wrath, but he bit back the irritation and slipped on a mask of allure and charm, his smirk dangerous and eyes tentative. It seemed that the girl never fell for his lies easily, and he despised that. It also thrilled him.

"As I said, I find it natural. So, what do you say?"

"Fine," she scoffed, knowing nothing would come out of this conversation, and Tom made a pleased sound before he nodded her way, saying that he would see her the next day at breakfast. He turned around and strode over to his group, leaving Varya to her thoughts.

She stood in her spot and watched him walk away with gallant steps, and her heart flipped at his elegance and imposing stature. He was simply mesmerizing, and his brilliance simply made him stand out more amongst a crowd. The way he carried himself, the superiority, it should have come off as arrogant, and his age should have made him seem childish— and yet sometimes she wondered how much of his actions were truly immature, and how much he simply feigned to stir reactions out of those around him.

He had such a diabolical mind, and Tom played everyone around him like a master of instruments, creating his own ode from somber notes and composing a ballad to the wicked. Even when she thought she was at an advantage, he plucked another string of sweet manipulation, and Varya found herself dancing to his pleasure.

In the end, all she could do is hope her feet held her until the spectacle was over and the curtains closed shut.


	49. chapter forty-seven

THE KITCHEN SMELLED of pan-fried eggs and baked beans as Varya Petrov strolled inside later than usual. She had slept in that day, letting her body recover after such a strenuous trip, and she promptly smiled as she saw Icarus Lestrange grappling not to burn the food. Abraxas Malfoy was standing by the bar, mixing something for himself and watching his friend struggle with impassive eyes.

"Shit," yelped Icarus as a bit of oil jumped on his hand, and he dragged his hand back from the frying pan, then glared at it. Varya's high pitched laughter filled the room, and his almond irises immediately flew to her, a wan smile on his face, "Good afternoon, princess. I see you took your fine time."

Varya elbowed him to the side and seized the pan, knowing well that no pureblood in this house had any survival skills. They had been pampered their whole lives, and the only reason Icarus was cooking for himself was that he wanted to prove to Malfoy that he was capable of doing so. The witch threw away the burned eggs, then cracked open a new batch and let them sizzle.

"I barely sleep in, give me a break," she huffed before turning the eggs. Things were still slightly strained with Icarus, but she was making an effort to fix everything. Despite all, he was an essential person in her life, and she knew that asking him to stand up to Riddle was unfair.

Lestrange smiled brilliantly, delighted that the girl was finally talking to him again, then he threw himself on one of the bar stools and watched her prepare their breakfast. Malfoy threw the glass in the sink and groaned, "God, I hate it when I put too much whiskey in my coffee, now I am tipsy."

"As long as you do not do what you did in Prague."

"Shut your mouth, Lestrange."

Varya smiled to herself as she set their food. It was easy to forget that those boys had grown up together, had seen the world together. Although Riddle had brought them under one name, most had been friends for years and shared deeper bonds. It was funny to her, how some whispered that there was no friendship between all of them, yet it was so painstakingly obvious that they would all die and fight for each other.

"How did you two meet?" asked the witch as she set the plates down in front of them, and they immediately gobbled up the food, cutting and eating eagerly. Lestrange moaned at the taste, then threw Malfoy a bold look.

"Fate brought us together," he proclaimed dramatically, then inclined over with puckered lips. Abraxas scoffed and pushed him back, "Our families always plan marriages between each other; it was probably a wedding. To be fair, most of us have known each other since childhood. Selwyn and I grew up in the same neighborhood— our parents always thought we would get married."

Varya smiled at that, "I could see that."

"No way," the boy threw his head back in a hearty laugh, "I saw her when she was awkward and bony, and her hair frizzed at the slightest hint of humidity. I remember once we were in London, and we went to this restaurant, and she choked on some sort of dessert. Funny, really."

"Well, she is not awkward nor lanky anymore. As a matter of fact, I would say she is the most gorgeous girl in the Slytherin house," said Varya as she finished her eggs, and Icarus stilled at that.

"Well, I mean— she is pretty, but..." he mumbled, and Varya could see the fight in his eyes, almost as if he had never considered the fact that Elladora was no longer the twelve-year-old she had once been.

Malfoy chewed slowly on his food as he watched his friend have a breakdown, "So oblivious," he muttered to himself, then got up and put the dishes in the sink. With a look of gratitude towards Varya, he dusted off his black suit and darted outside, where Avery and Rosier were working on Ren's car.

Icarus then stilled, and hush fell over the two past lovers. The boy cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, tortuously aware that it was their first time being alone together since their break-up. He missed her deeply, so much so that his heart throbbed whenever she smiled, and he would have done anything to have her back. Most of all, it was painful to see Varya with Tom, knowing well that she would never get what she deserved from him.

"I have been meaning to talk to you," blurted Lestrange, and Varya grimaced. She did not want to have some sort of sappy conversation with the boy, and her breath hitched as he drew closer to her.

"About what?" she asked, then focused her eyes on her food.

"Tom," said Icarus openly, then he looked around the salon to check for their leader. Nevertheless, the boy was still in his room, and he would not come out until later. He always kept to himself whenever they went somewhere.

"What about him?"

"He is manipulating you," confessed the boy, and Varya raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing new there," she scoffed, then picked up their plates and glasses and went to the sink. Icarus trailed after her, then stopped by her side and towered over her as she washed everything.

"The play, you remember that?"

"Yes, I do. Last I know, he actually saved me there."

"He made it _seem_ like he did," mumbled Icarus, then he lowered his lips to her ear, and they both felt electrified at the close contact, "But did you ask yourself why Elladora had been flirting with Black in the first place? Why Riddle had even bothered coming to a show when he never socializes?"

Varya dropped the glass in the sink. Her mind ran at fast rates as she tried to recall that evening. It was rather odd that Selwyn had simply started showing affection to Ivy's former boyfriend, mostly since she avoided the boy at all costs after the play. And yes, Tom would have never attended such a thing without having a scheme in place.

Merlin, she was so oblivious.

"Icarus," her timbre was threatening, and she turned to face the boy, their faces close together, and Lestrange's abdomen filled with butterflies at the proximity, "What are you getting at?"

"He set everything up to make you trust him, to have you come with him to Albania. Tom wanted you to believe that things had been changing, that he trusted you to some extent...But everything was a mirage," the words stumbled out of his mouth like a cascade, and Varya's heart filled with dread, "He made Selwyn stir a reaction out of Ivy to cause a scene, knowing that they were going to use an Ashwinder. Now, none of us expected the explosion, but then he told Malfoy to glue your feet to the stage so that he could run and save you. I mean, for Merlin's sake, when has Tom ever gone out of his way to save someone?"

He had done it for her, multiple times, and yet the girl always seemed to forget that Riddle desired her powers above all else, and that he would protect her for that reason alone. She pursed her lips in displeasure, and a wave of resentment passed through her like a midnight tide, drenching her in utter hatred.

Varya opened her mouth to say something, but then the door opened, and in walked the little demon, horns hidden between curls of Belgian chocolate and wickedness framed by azure irises. Tom paced his way to the breakfast table, then grabbed an orange from the basket and proceeded to peel it.

He glanced at Varya, and hoisted an eyebrow at her recalcitrant figure, as the witch gave him a death stare, "May I help you?".

The girl felt Icarus stiffen beside her, and she knew there was nothing she could say for fear of the boy being persecuted. They always had to walk on glass around Riddle, because he was so unstable that one did not know what his reaction would be. Tom pushed a slide of orange between his lips, then licked at the juice that dripped down his mouth, and tilted his head as an invitation for her to speak up.

"Nothing," she muttered, then turned around to do the dishes, an attempt to hide from his devious smirk, the way his jaw set in amusement at her discomfort. He was so bloody destructive, and he betrayed as nothing mattered to him but power.

For now, Petrov had nothing to say to him, and she could only cradle the fallen petals of her vitality rose as he continued to pluck them with each scheme, and the girl's hope proceeded to fade into a blur of nothing and everything. The thorns pricked at her insides, and they drew blood so easily. That was how he ruined her— from the inside, while preserving her appearance of a vigorous witch.

"Are you dueling today, Lestrange?" Riddle inquired as he stepped towards his acolyte, who glanced at the girl's fallen expression before pushing himself off of the counter.

"Dueling?" queried Varya, although her face was still turned away.

"Favorite past-time activity— getting as close to murdering each other without actually doing it," revealed Icarus, then grabbed her wrist and dragged her outside, where the rest of the Knights were already sitting at an outdoor table.

Tom tarried behind the two, eating slowly as he analyzed all of his followers. He had dueled all of them multiple times, and yet none had come close to disarming him or having him surrender. Now, Varya was a completely different challenge, and he felt his excitement rise at the idea of battling the girl.

Rosier cheered as he saw them approach, and then he pulled out a notepad, "Now, Nott will keep the score as always, since we all know he would be the first one out anyway. No offense, mate," the French man chuckled before passing the quill and paper to his frowning friend. Then, he patted down his vest, and shuffled his sleeves swiftly, "How are we doing this?"

"Random draws?" advised Elladora, pushing her sunglasses upwards on her nose bridge. She was holding a delicate teacup in her hands, swirling the contents around as she sat on a chair cross-legged.

Rosier nodded, then took the hat off of Nicholas' head, and bewitched it to draw all of their names. His hand dove right in, and he pulled out a piece of paper, "Elladora, and—" his hand went back in, "Nicholas. Oh, I am dying to see this one!"

Selwyn glanced at the butcher over her teacup, then politely placed it on the table. She moved across the yard with grace, her hair carrying the color of a thousand burnings apollos, and her ingenious acorn eyes flashed of alluring frigidness. The witch stood in the middle of the courtyard, her lips turned in the flimsiest smirk, and she clasped her hands behind her back, sending a strong message— _I do not fear you_.

That is all it took for Nicholas to pull his knives out of his belt, twisting them around slender digits, then gripping their handles hard, "How did that earlobe of yours heal?"

Elladora scoffed, then pursed her lips in discontent as her white dress fluttered in the wind, "How did that head trauma of yours heal after I saved your life, Avery?".

Varya shifted in her seat at the obvious scalding tension between the two— they did not like each other, not in the slightest, and while they might have fought together under the same purpose, at the end of the day, their anger thrived above else. The girl could not help but wonder why, so she passed a look to Nott, who smiled at the quizzical expression.

"They are not the greatest of friends," he mused as he leaned forward to talk to her, "Avery used to make fun of her as we were growing up, and Selwyn grew a strong dislike for him. I think he actually sees her as some sort of little sister, but Merlin, they are insufferable."

The wind blew their locks, and the scenery stilled as the two wizards regarded each other with falcon eyes. It was a clash of two magnets, an opposition of solutions that never mixed well together, and Selwyn scrunched her button nose at Nicholas' dismissive stare. Varya thought back to her words on the previous day, how she had alluded to men never taking her seriously, and she wondered what her strategy would be, as she was as stealthy as Leviathan.

It was Nicholas that made the first move, always transient, always dynamic, and yet he moved with the furtiveness of an assassin as he twisted one knife and threw it at the girl, trying to get her to budge. Elladora raised one swift palm in the air, stopping the pointy edge right as it almost touched her forehead, and she stared back with acidity in her features.

" _Impedimenta_!" her voice boomed through the forest, and Avery found his moves slowed down as the girl flung at him, eyebrow drawn in frustration as he tried to avoid her next strike. He was blasted ten feet backward, and then Elladora threw her unique darts at him.

They almost hit the boy, but he quickly deflected them, "Poison? Really?". He scoffed, then kicked himself off of the ground with a neat turn, and spun his body as he sent another knife her way, this time charmed with an icing spell. The girl yelled as it hit her shoulder and froze over, making her unable to use the hand that loomed over her potion pouch.

"Why are they not simply using magic?" questioned Varya, astonished at the tactics the two were using.

It was Riddle that answered as he sat down next to her, lovat eyes trained on her curious expression, and he rested his chin in his hand, "To surprise an adversary, one must use blasphemous tactics. When combating a wizard, they will be too focused on the hand that carried the wand to notice the one that plunges the knife in their chest."

"Macabre way of dueling."

"Yet very efficient," meditated the leader as he watched his acolytes duel. Elladora had managed to break the ice, and was now throwing missiles of smog through the yard, making Nicholas groan as his eyes watered and his eyesight faded, "That is what makes them extraordinary, their capability to think outside of the box. Magic is restricted in the Hogwarts curriculum, and none of us are taught real defense strategies, so we took it to ourselves to practice and become military leaders."

Varya could only nod in understanding, and when her eyes flicked back to the duel, her heart plummeted as she saw that it had ended. Selwyn had laced her smoke with some sort of psychedelic, and Avery was now seizing on the floor, dagger on his neck as the girl smirked viciously.

"You surrender?"

Avery glowered at her as his body convulsed, "I d-do."

Elladora opened her pouch and grabbed a vial, then forced it down his throat, and in a matter of seconds, he was back to normal, groaning in frustration at his loss. It had always been a balanced duel between the two of them, and she was one of the few people that managed to best him. The boy got to his feet, and trailed behind the glowing victor as she threw the men a smirk that screamed supremacy.

"Next!" yelled Rosier, and he took out two names scribbled on paper with delight, "Would you look at that? Let's go, Malfoy. I have waited for a long time to tassel that platinum hair of yours. Now, I hope you do not mind your black suit getting a little dusty—"

Malfoy blasted him to the sides, and the boy's body rolled on virid grass before stopping against the trunk of a tree. Ren groaned as he clutched his stomach, then twisted to face Abraxas as he stood against the horizon, a scarecrow of pride and malevolence, the right-hand of the devil himself.

Satan had been wrath, but Lucifer was pride, and Malfoy held his stance with luscious resolve. His next move was just as ax-cut as his first— clean, rough— but Rosier was not to be messed with himself. Regardless of his position, the boy had something that the rest of them lacked— he laughed in the face of danger, he embraced death with the sanity of a maniac.

Rosier was utterly insane, and so he cackled before deflecting Malfoy's curse, "Oh, not very friendly." Then, he charged forward, and his wand sent a cascade of fire down, and the hunger in his eyes was plentiful—damned Beelzebub, always ravenous for chaos.

Clicking his tongue against his cheek, Malfoy surrounded himself with a wall of water, and it sizzled as it extinguished the demonic flames that engulfed him. He gave no time for Rosier to get back on track before he flicked a finger, and a tree fell on the boy.

Varya rose to her feet, hand flying to her mouth, and when she heard Tom's amused scoff, vicious eyes turned to the boy. He hoisted an eyebrow at her, shaking his head ever so slightly, "Malfoy might be a quiet person, but believe me, he is my second in command for a reason. The ones that never show their true power outright are the deadliest."

Selwyn ran across the estate to where the boy had fallen, and immediately flicked the trunk away. When she saw him laughing on the ground, she rolled her eyes and sent a thumbs up to the group, before giving him a vial of bone reconstructing potion.

Then, Ren limped back to them with her help, and he sat down on one chair with a groan, face turning to Malfoy, who was stoic as always, "That was crude."

"I will make you an Irish coffee, shut it." And then he strode in the kitchen and grabbed the whiskey bottle.

Rosier made a pleased sound, then clutched the hat once again, eyes looking at the three remaining tributes. He bit back a laugh at the situation, not knowing which battle would be more amusing to watch— the former lovers trying to take each other out while being eaten alive by guilt, the two commanders of battle, or the two absolute sociopaths that were oblivious to their feelings?

He pulled out the first name and smirked, "Varya, rise, and shine."

The girl had half-expected it to be her. After all, she had the worst luck out of all. She pushed herself off of the chair, then glanced between the two men that were left, and she did not know which battle she dreaded more.

Rosier stuck his hand in the hat, and as he began pulling out the paper, he saw an "L" etched on it, and frowned. No, he wanted something more dramatic today. So he stuffed Icarus' name back in and grabbed Tom's, "Ah, what a coincidence! Riddle!"

Tom tilted his head and smirked at the girl with a serpentinous charm, and then he got up from his seat with a gracious move and strode over to the opening. His mind swirled with rapture, and he wondered if this was the right time to get back at her for almost killing him.

Varya, on the other hand, had no intention of going easy on the boy. For too long, she had let herself be manipulated by him; for too long, she had tried not to hurt him during their arguments, but Icarus' words had been the last nail to his coffin, and whatever happened on the front would not keep her awake at night.

"All right, now try not to kill each other!" screamed Nicholas from the veranda, and then he winked at Icarus, whose face had blanched completely.

She looked at Tom, observing the way his cerulean irises focused on her with sole maliciousness, and his lips turned in a beam of crudeness. He bowed at her tauntingly, almost disrespectfully, only to spite the girl further, and yet he kept his composure— regardless, he knew not to underestimate the witch, but the show of defiance would rattle her.

It was the way he twisted her mind with each calculated quiver of his eyebrows, the way he angered her with impassive expressions— his most effective weapon. Tom Riddle was cunning beyond imagination, and he feigned and changed personas so often even he found himself confused at times. Nevertheless, nothing rattled his temper quite like the Eastern witch.

Varya made the first move. She blasted the ground beneath his feet completely, and her eyes unfocused as the boy apparated somewhere else entirely, "You can apparate?"

"Of course I can," he smirked at his own trick, knowing that he was letting one Ace poke from his sleeve. He wondered, then, why he was putting in so much effort for a mere duel.

Perhaps, to impress her.

He needed no wand, and with the slightest flick of the wrist, he sent a maelstrom of fire that cackled against the magnet sky, then dove down on her in serpentine form, mouth open with a voracious need for murder. Varya blocked it, then huffed in irritation at his display of magic.

The witch took her knife out, and if the boy wanted surprise, that was precisely what he would get. She cut her hand, letting the haematic liquid drip slowly, then advanced as she chanted her spell, earning an impressed look from Riddle. The sigil burned on the ground, and Varya lowered herself to it, eyes closed as her lips murmured to nature, to darkness, and her bloody hand scraped against the dirt as her sable dress pooled around her legs, and her braided midnight locks swayed in the fastened wind.

The sky darkened as if Armageddon had finally come to save them from their despondency and sacrilegiousness, and the blow of nature mewled at the upheaval of dark magic that slithered through the cracks of the ground, and shadows danced their way to Tom Riddle as the witch chanted the coven's call. No mercy was to be bestowed, and she had a few lessons to teach the boy.

Riddle felt the liquid drip down his nose, and the acrid taste of caustic blood invaded the back of his throat. It pooled on his hands, and in his eyes swam erythraean pigment of mortality, a nuance of rouge and catastrophe, and how he wiped it away in such desperation as the mercuric traces in his blood rose from the spell, and he poisoned himself with his own venom— a tragic fate for a serpent.

Spots whirred in his vision, and the sound of birds muffled in his ears as he tried to make sense of what was happening to him. There was no blast, no fury, just whispered words with ancient meanings and dark magic he barely knew himself, and the Old Ways triumphed.

But he was a Dark Wizard, and regardless, he had taught himself vast spells, some of which he had fashioned from Eastern volumes after meeting the witch. And so Tom muttered the incantation swiftly, always one step ahead, and Varya gasped as her magic channels felt the blockage, and her scorpion eyes snapped to his, the slightest flicker of white.

"You learned coven magic; you blocked my spell!"

Of course, he did. He was Tom Riddle, and was it not natural for such a brilliant mind to explore her own witchcraft after being exposed to it? He had been studying for a while now, trying to catch up with the girl's talents. Roguish smirk, and when his lips parted, she saw the blood that had stained his teeth, and yet he strode over graciously as if he had not almost perished mere seconds ago.

What power of nature he was, and she raised her head to meet his as he towered over her, glancing down at the milk skin that contrasted against her black dress, and she looked like a proper witch of Salem, "My turn."

Varya had never seen him perform dark magic, only ever the spells taught at Hogwarts, so when his lips spluttered Latin, her heart twirled with delight, and regardless of the spiders that darted towards her in madness at his call, she smiled.

The spiders neared, and only when she felt a few crawl up her leg did she let out a scream past her lips, swatting them away as they tried to cover her body. She pivoted on her feet, then circled herself in fire and watched them burn in the flames, before facing Riddle yet again with a daunting smirk.

"Is that all your dainty books taught you? Could have just asked me for private lessons," she twirled, and her next movement caught him off-guard, as she grabbed at his throat and pulled him in a paroxysm of wind. His hair flew around as the girl pulled him closer, and yet his lips turned upwards when their noses met, "Like what you see?"

"I should lie," he confessed, and her eyes twinkled.

"So do it."

"I cannot," and then her nails dug in his skin and dragged at the epidermis, clawing at his throat. Tom sneered maniacally before blasting her away from him, and she rolled on the grass.

Nicholas Avery whistled to himself, then threw Nott a merry glance, "You think they're going to kill each other?" Maxwell shrugged, then sipped on his coffee.

Tom walked to her quickly, then lowered himself, his ankles supporting his weight, and he pushed the girl to her back, smiling as he saw the laceration on her cheek, and he placed a finger against the open wound and pushed, the hair on his arms rising as she screamed and kicked at him.

"Bloody hell, Riddle," she breathed and patted her face, healing her wound fastly. The boy bit the inside of his cheek, and watched as the blood dried on her face.

He pressed his finger against the stain and scrubbed at it, enjoying the way the carmine danced on her skin. His thumb trailed over her lips, and Riddle wanted nothing more than to taste her again.

The twilight hour chimed, and the rust of dusk clinked through the night as the last tangerine turned in exquisite amethyst. The crows screeched through the wild lilac yonder, and their croaky sounds brought peace to the girl. Somewhere in the distance, a church's tower bell reverberated with silver. The fragrance of the moonflower traveled through the air, and surrounded the two lovers as they stared at each other— macabre, yet jovial.

Her eyes rolled in the back of her head as her lips moved vigorously to curse Tom, and the boy fell to his side as she took control of his nervous system, sending spasms, making him twitch as he fought against the foreign sensation, "Now, you know how it feels when you make the Obscurus take over my body."

Riddle groaned, then blocked her again, and irritation sparked in her eyes as she rose to her feet and put distance between them. Even so, the boy conjured the grass, and it braided in a long whip that he lashed against her feet, catching her ankle and pulling her to the ground. Varya threw her fist at the ground in frustration, then felt him turn her to face his smirk. He straddled her, and as he looked down at her, a curl fell forward and tickled her forehead.

"Any last words?" he said arrogantly, and the girl stared at him with wrath.

"Yes, actually," Varya answered, her tone caustic as it dripped with fraudulent docility. She raised her face until they were inches apart, and his lips hovered hers in temptation.

Tom's throat constricted as he inhaled her citric scent, and his mind swirled as he remembered the way she had felt the previous night. He looked down at her delicate features, and the way they were graced by such recalcitrance and arrogance, and then his stomach twisted as his mind was plagued with her. He lowered his head, "What is it?".

He felt the pointy tip against his throat—her blade.

"Check-mate."

Varya's eyes twinkled with satisfaction as she pressed the dagger against his throat, and she laughed in high-pitches at his bothered expression. Once again, her knife had been the end of their tale, and it was comical how he always forgot about it regardless of her frequent usage.

Rosier whistled from the sides, and applauded as the Knights watched their King fall, and yet none seemed to mind as Varya and Tom made their way back to the Manor, "That was marvelous!"

"I have never seen Riddle bleed," said Malfoy, with no emotion in his voice as he passed a wet towel to his leader. Astonishingly, Riddle had taken the loss pretty well, and despite the evident frustration, he seemed to be more focused on getting the blood off of his ruffled shirt and vest.

Nicholas turned his head to him, then cast a quick " _Tengo_ " spell to siphon the liquid, earning a nod of acknowledgment from the ruler. Then, he stared at Varya, "Now, teach me those spells, or I might strangle you in your sleep."

"I would like to see you try."

"Getting cocky, are we not?" he quipped, then bent over to pick up the shoes that he had so graciously taken off. He stuffed his feet inside, then sat up straight, "Nevertheless, I believe it is time for dinner."

***

Varya spooned her gelato as she and Tom stood outside on the porch, gazing up at the sky that had fallen in nocturnal bliss, a coating of gemstones of numerous proportions and hues that swirled into galaxies and cosmos. The moonshine glided over their translucent faces in waves of an ocean tide, and it pulled heartstrings closer in silence and darkness.

The taciturnity of the bone-white moon, and the stilled scenery of nighttime, where the only tune was that of The Ink Spot's Maybe and Elladora Selwyn's crystalline laugh as Icarus twirled her softly to the tempo in the living room, and Varya much wondered if the witch liked violins.

"Muggle music," remarked Tom bitterly, and yet his foot tapped to the slow tune, and his heartbeat mellowed out as he allowed himself a peaceful moment. He was not one for music, he found it ridiculous, yet there was something that stirred as he glanced at the woman by his side.

"Indeed," sighed Varya, and she licked at her spoon eagerly, enjoying the sensation of coldness and frost that soothed her flaring skin at the boy's presence.

She was not sure which one of them had come outside first, perhaps neither, and yet they found themselves in each other's proximity. A long time ago, Varya had thought that there was a string of fate that connected her to Riddle, and that it pulled at her being to follow him wherever he went.

Perhaps, now it pulled him too.

"Slow down with the wine," came Nott's muffled voice from behind the glass door, and Varya turned to see Rosier on the kitchen marble, swinging his body gently, pointed hand in the air and eyes closed as he moved softly to the tune. Ren had a blissful smile on his face, and with the bottle in his hand, he looked more at peace than ever. She wondered what, or who, the boy was running from.

Malfoy had fallen asleep on the couch, and Avery was drawing a mustache on his face with his wand. His nose scrunched, and Nicholas' eyes enlarged, then Abraxas turned to the side and swung his arm over the other boy and pulled him in a hug, downright petrifying him.

The soft tune continued to carry out, and they all fell into some sort of tranquility as they soothed the aches in their bodies and minds, allowing themselves to taste normalcy on their buds, and they all looked alive with joy and the inherent recklessness of their age. For a second, the girl wondered what would have come of them, had the world not turned its back to their needs.

She imagined a reality where Tom Riddle was a sane man, an aristocrat that paraded himself amongst ballrooms with vanity and superfluous grace, and wrung the hearts of young women with just the right mixture of mischief— always in close reach, and yet inaccessible. He would be the heir of the Gaunt lineage, and she, the sole name bearer of the Petrov line, and they would meet at a ball that neither desired to attend, then exchange flirtatious glances over champagne flutes. When the moment of adventure would caress their souls, Tom would walk across the floor, pushing past moving couples, and ask—

"You want to go for a walk?"

Varya's mouth hung open as the spoon dangled on her lips, and she turned to peer at the boy, make sure he had really said those words, and when his world-weary eyes gave her a frustrated look, the witch knew that he had asked her, in fact, to promenade around the Nott estate.

She placed the cup to her side, then wiped at the creamy substance on her lips, and raised to her feet in anticipation. Tom frowned, then proceeded to walk with her by his side, hands in pockets and eyes trained on the horizon.

It was the way their steps synced; the way silence never carried any weight, and how she felt her hand tingle as it swayed by his side. Varya loved him as she did not even love herself, and her mind was fighting a losing battle against his manipulation.

He wanted some peace of mind, away from the rest of the Knights, and they strode down the paved garden patches— him, with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the girl with curiosity; her, with a blush coating delicate cheeks, restless underneath his eyes.

"Did you get Nott to sign those papers you needed?" she asked suddenly, and Tom nodded.

"Yes, I will be residing with him over the summer," his eyes lingered on her, "Where will you be going?"

"I am not sure, really," Varya admitted, "With Grindelwald on the loose, there is not really any safe space for me. Perhaps, I could ask Dumbledore to let me stay at Hogwarts. I do not know— it will be strange."

"Why would you need Dumbledore to protect you?" Tom scoffed, and he felt his blood rise. Was she implying that he was not enough? That his powers were not enough to have the Dark Wizard stay away from her? He turned his head away in irritation, disliking the way his guts twisted with resentment.

Then, he wondered what he would do if the girl would be in danger, if he would truly be apathetic. She was such a valuable asset to have by his side— powerful in body and mind, and Petrov brought out something in him; he did not understand. He had thought for the longest time that she was merely a weapon, and it had been true, yet her touches were a universe of itself, and he had become obsessed with the way she tasted.

The smile on her face was enraging, so electric, so fatalistic, and Tom felt his breath hitch as her dark eyelashes batted at him, and her chapped cinnabar lips stretched. She was of catastrophic proportions, a devil sent by Satan, or an angel sent by God— he was not quite sure, yet they all brought despair to his mind. The breeze of darkness passed through her tousled obsidian waves, and she was a phantom of possibility against a sky of realism.

_And then, horror struck him as he felt them._

His pupils dilated as Varya looked at him, and queasiness spread through his senses, and they all turned to her— he could only smell her citric fragrance, he could only gaze at her raptured face, he could only hear her soft breaths, he could only touch her pale skin.

Suddenly, the boy stopped in his tracks, and he glanced at her with uncertainty and doubt, and then his fist pressed against his chest, pushing down on his heart as it went basilisktic. It drummed with effervescent venom, and Tom let his mind wander on the possibility of being poisoned, for he could not understand the way his hands jittered, or the way his breath came in heaps.

Varya Petrov was the woman he would never figure out, a mess of juxtapositions in his vocabulary— she was of a macabre soul, yet so generous it was of fables, she was the strongest person he had met, yet she succumbed to her darkness. When pearls of sorrow fell from her eyes and came in a river of anguish, it angered him. On the contrary, when she radiated of enthralling tenderness, he loathed it.

He pressed against his chest harder, and Riddle felt that his lungs were giving upon him. Varya moved to his side, and her hands flew to his body, yet they burned like the fire of Hell, or the holy water. Once again, he was not sure. He felt— he did not know. His brain fogged over, and he recoiled from her.

"Is everything all right, Tom?"

Her voice made his ears screech. No, it was the finest tune of spring. No! His ears bled. He hated it. He hated her. _Did he_? Riddle's hands flew to his ears as his eyes shut in agony, and he groaned as his brain seemed to implode in on itself.

_Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom._

He wanted to rip his heart out from his chest; he wanted to smash it against the pavement and make it stop from beating so erratically. Riddle's soul shifted, and something cracked through, then everything seemed to be made of light and _her, her, her_.

_Tom should kill her. End her. Murder her. Rip her throat out. Gauge out her eyes. Bash her head against the trees. Make it stop. Do it! Do it!_

He gasped for air as he fell to his knees, and Varya kneeled beside him, taking notice of how his clothes had drenched in cold perspiration, and he glistened in the moonlight as he looked at her with lost eyes. And how beautiful he was—a broken soul, a heart on the verge of breaking.

The boy was panicking in a way he had never before, and for years he had been void itself, yet now something was blossoming, and as it curled up his throat, it suffocated him with tender touches and the fragrance of oranges.

_What did it mean that he could not bring himself to kill her?_

The girl grabbed at his face, and tried to help his eyes focus as they moved around frantically, almost as if he was in a trance, and then his forehead fell to her shoulder. Varya wrapped worried arms around him and pulled him close as he struggled to breathe. He was breaking.

_Kill her. Kill her. Kill her._

"Tom?"

He grabbed her face and pressed his lips against hers, trying to extinguish what she had called attraction, trying to get his body to stop needing her as he had done so many times. But it was not enough; this time, there was more to it: his pulse racing, his heart beating, his breath hitching.

But why? He did not understand why his insides were melting, or why it felt as if he was having a heart attack. Such a foreign sensation, and was this it? Was he dying?

Tom kissed her with need, with fire, and Varya's mind spun as she wrapped her arms around his neck, and her legs made to straddle the boy as he stood upright in the grass. The moonlight braided her hair as his fingers danced through it, and the song of the owls covered his rugged breath, and her quiet sobs as they kissed. And it felt final; it felt like an ending.

_Was it?_

His lips were the tidal wave of the morning in the August month, and he soothed the absolute burning in her, he muted nature and humanity with desire, and his body was never close enough to hers. Tom was the coldness against her burning figure as the Sun flared her up. But he was the Sun too, and that did not make sense, not now, nor ever.

 _Tom had never needed anything_.

Varya whimpered against his hold, and the power that pulsed through his veins put everything into place and revived him, as if she was the answer to everything. And he thought back to the first time he had seen her, to how indifferent he had felt. This did not feel like that, it did not feel like she could vanish, and he would be the same.

_Did he need her?_

She pressed soft lips against his neck, and his neck extended as he groaned at the feeling of her. Tom's hands pulled her sooty dress upwards, his nimble fingers traced the outline of her lacey socks, and he then gripped tighter.

 _Oh no_.

"Tom," her whine spiraled everything into oblivion, and his eyes darted to the sky as he wondered if divinity or monstrosity had graced Earth. The stars aligned, the constellations felt alive and danced amongst the black sea, her lips on his skin. Perhaps, maybe, somehow, his name was not disgusting when she breathed it like that.

 _Razor-winged butterflies_.


	50. chapter forty-eight

" _Petrov..._ "

The window pushed open slightly, a deep creek resonating through the hazy room, and the bony hand clutched on the edge as it pulled itself up, dragging its severed body through the opening. A trail of dirty blood graced the side of the Nott manor, but whether it was a nightmare or reality was uncertain, and yet the torn ligaments that caught in the ajar window stuck tenaciously.

A crow's poem amplified and rippled through the midnight, right before the creature seized its neck and crushed it. _Hard...hard...hard_. Its horrifying outcry permeated the air, and its umbra danced in the moonlight as it grappled in its final moments, right before its head was pulverized into a puddle of cerebrum matter and cardinal liquid, spilling from long claws.

It feasted on the bird's flesh grotesquely, gore pooling from fangs as it gnawed on bones and swallowed them all together. Its whalebone skin was hanging open in patches, and its muscles were exposed to the darkness as they moved toward the hallway.

The old wood rasped under Varya's bare feet, and the girl trudged along the cryptic corridor, shadows spilling from each corner onto the floor and then slinking through cracks. Her nightgown pooled around her knees, white as the snow of December, and sooty locks fell in heaps on her back. She stopped in front of the mirror by one of the large portraits and leaned in to look at herself.

It was her skin she saw, her eyes, and yet she felt more a phantom than a human— her epidermis was translucent, and she saw pulsating veins underneath as they pressed against the soft barrier, almost as if begging to burst open at the high pressure; her eyes were bloodshot, cardinal irises of madness and sanguine. One of her eyes no longer had eyelashes, and it moved on its own erratically, scanning the room in a panic.

Somewhere along the hallway, something moved, and she saw a figure dart through the shadows, but as Varya tried to grab at it, it vanished into nothingness. A door stood ajar at the end of the corridor, and her legs moved towards it slowly, surely. A being trailed behind her, or above her— it mattered not. All she knew is that it was watching her.

A spirit, a demon, regardless, an evil presence neared, and Varya pinched at her skin, trying to wake herself up, yet she felt the pain with exquisite force. Was it real? It could not be, and yet she felt everything as it radiated around her.

The witch's hand rested on the door, and she pushed it open before stepping into the covered room. It was obscure, and yet the foulness of death clung to the particles of air, and she fought back the bile that raised to her throat.

Obsidian eyes watered at the sight of more than a dozen cadavers, some she knew, some she did not, and her breath came in shallow sounds as her hand reached out to Ivan's decapitated form, trying to grasp at the ragged clothes in despair, cling onto the semblance of her childhood. Ecaterina's skin clung to her bones, and she was barely recognizable by the sunken cheeks and void stare. Lopheus was leaning against a wall, eyes gouged out, and tongue cut in pieces. There was Miss Pichler, Richard MacDuff, Sylvia Carrow, and many others that she could not make out, but knew they were employees of Grindelwald's castle.

One thing hung in the air— guilt.

The souls she had damned along the way, some of them were her own killings, some she bore on weak shoulders. As she stared at the mess or organs, flesh, and sanguine on the floors, she could not help but sink to her feet, sorrowful tears draining down the witch's face.

Varya crawled through the mess of internal tissue, ignoring the way her white gown covered in stormy blood, the way it clung to her frail figure, and she bit back her despair before trying to grab at the souls through rheumy eyes. And then she saw it.

_The body of someone who was not dead yet— an omen of the future._

Just as Varya Petrov was about to scream, the creature's hand covered her mouth, and then she was pulled back into the hallway, door shutting before her, and claws ripping at her skin. She felt its breath on her ear, and the blood from its mouth drip down her collarbones.

" _Wail for the dead_ ," it susurrated, rattling her cochlea with its high pitched shriek, " _And know they are coming to take even more from you_."

The witch shot up in her bed, hands clasped around her throat as she fought back against the nightmare. Her mystified eyes glanced around the room in confusion, and she kicked the duvets to the side as she fell from her bed and onto the ground, throwing up the previous night's dinner.

Varya's mind fogged over, and she tried to remember whose body she had seen, yet found nothing but blankness, and her face covered in tears of anguish as she struggled to stand up, gripping her night stand's edge.

Her hands wiped at her face, then she sat back on the bed and pulled her knees up to her chest, balancing back and forth, and she mumbled to herself, "It was just a nightmare. It was just a nightmare."

Yet the blood on the window frame begged to differ.

***

He avoided her.

Varya had not seen Tom since they had kissed in the night field, and she wondered if it had been a figment of her imagination. It had seemed surreal. He had looked at her as if he wanted to flee, yet kissed her as if she was the air that he was breathing.

Regardless, the boy had kept his distance, and as Nott's gala approached, Varya only grew more worried. Riddle had asked her to be his date, yet now that seemed to be uncertain. Even so, she did not want to go out looking for him out of fear of looking desperate.

So on the morning of the event, she walked outside into the yard, feet bare, and sat down on the grass with a pot of tea by her side and a basket of sandwiches, hellbent on enjoying herself and taking a moment to breathe. Her mind had been focused on everything but her well being, and after what had happened in Albania, the girl knew she needed a moment to breathe.

Petrov had been...seeing things. Things that should not have been there, almost as if they were an illusion. It had started with the blood in the shower, then the nightmare that had felt almost like a premonition.

Perhaps, everyone had a tipping point, and Varya was nearing hers. For so long, she had thought that the only way to stay sane was to remain neutral. And, perhaps, if she had still lived in Romania, that might have been an option. But the scales had been changed as her attachments grew, and now she was pulled in two completely different directions.

There was Tom, the Knights, and their voracious ascendance to power, a conquest of time and endurance. Then there was Ivy, Della, and Felix, people that promised a life of normalcy and optimism. Always in the middle, never entirely fitting in, ambiguous, Varya, the stranger.

"You are standing outside by yourself?"

Varya turned to glance at Rosier, who threw himself to the ground with a groan before kicking off his shoes and laying on his back in a star position. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the warmth of the early Sun, then opened one eye to look at her.

"You seem quite upset," he said, then twisted to lay on his side, head resting on his hand, and Varya gave him a soft smile, "I want to hear all about what made that pretty face of yours turn so dull."

The girl scoffed as he pushed her forehead with a finger, then swatted at him, knowing well she could not tell him about the spirits, nor the necklace. Varya frowned and poured him a cup of tea, extending it to the boy.

"I am surprised you have the stomach for it," he chuckled, and hoisted an eyebrow when she threw him a glare.

"Yes, well," she took a sip of it, then patted her lips dry, "I am in no position to be queasy about such things. If I let every single thing that you all have done to me affect me, I would have jumped off of the Astronomy Tower long ago."

Her voice was brittle, and she hid quivering lips behind her cup as her raven eyes darted to the forest line and stayed there, unmoving. Ren's forehead creased in worry, and his tousled curls fell around his ears as he shifted in discomfort.

The boy had always had a problem with upsetting people, and felt like he had to please those around him and chatter their ear off to be liked. He had always been a free spirit, and yet his insides were so infected and dead that he felt the need to drown them in expensive liquor and puff away at tobacco sticks between raw lips that had kissed too many boys and girls during long nights. He was a man of midnight, and his lost soul wandered strange corridors and always found himself in places he should not have been.

That is how he had found his sister hanging.

And when he could not have saved her, he made a vow to please those around him, to have them depend on his fruitful conversations and polite gestures. Renold Rosier was a rotten apple that had been placed in a jeweled box, and when his mind wandered to the shadows and the ghosts, he found himself pulling out a metal flask to forget.

He treated life as a joke, because it was the funniest thing he had ever seen. A world so corrupt where parents forgot their dead children and replaced paintings in foyers so they would not scare the guests, and threw enough parties to present themselves as a happy family regardless of circumstances.

Well, some could not forget. The guilt was heavy on his shoulders, and as much as he tried to run away, she always whispered terror in his ear. But Varya, that was something he had control over, at least slightly. And Rosier had seen her break multiple times, so he had made an effort to keep an eye out for her and prevent her from falling to Tom's manipulation completely.

He told her about the Slug Club and accepted the punishment. He warned her about Icarus' insincerity and tried to push her away. Regardless, her love for Riddle had been something not even Ren could change, and as much as he wanted to protect her, some things were just meant to be.

There was one last thing he could warn her about, though.

"Varya," he began, voice low, and it was disturbing to see the boy so serious, "I have been visiting the Hufflepuff room recently, you know?"

The girl gave him an incredulous look, "So I have heard. You found yourself a lady?"

"Yes," he huffed, "But no. At least not as you might think. You remember when you went to Diagon Alley, to the store that Maxwell sent you to?"

"Of course, although it was futile in the end. Barely found anything of use, and Borgin and Burkes was not the most pleasant trip I have had, I will not lie."

Rosier bit back a curse, and tried to send her a mental push. Connect the dots, Varya! Think about it! But the girl only sipped on her tea and played with the hem of her skirt, earning a frustrated sigh from him. He could not say it outright, not until the girl figured it out herself.

"That play was quite a catastrophe, was it not?" he continued through gritted teeth, and Varya laughed out loud.

"Merlin, Rosier! You jump from subject to subject; I cannot keep up with you."

"But let us talk about the play," he said with an impediment, "It was odd that only Gryffindors and Slytherins were cast."

"I mean, Naramir was the narrator, so I could hardly say—"

Ah, there it was—the flicker of recognition.

Varya dropped the cup from her hand, and the hot tea spilled all over her lap, yet the burning was less of a worry than the utter terror that had taken over her being. Yes, the narrator. Naramir Borgin. The granddaughter of the owner of the shop, the same shop she had stolen Salazar's locket from. And if Rosier was going to the Hufflepuff room, that could only mean that Tom had started sniffing around, and there was only a matter of time before the truth came out.

She glanced at Ren, who gave her a knowing look, "Does he know?" asked the girl, her voice shaking slightly. This could not be good.

"I have not told him anything, and he has not asked because he has been focused on the diadem, but Varya," Rosier leaned in, making sure he could whisper, "Naramir told me that they know the necklace is gone, and although they have not been able to track you, it is only a matter of time before Riddle goes there himself. And he will get it out of them, even if he has to use torture or bring Nicholas along."

"What do I do?"

"You cannot give it back to him," stated Ren, "He is planning on making seven Horcruxes, and we both know that is six too many. Now, you have been quite a dent in his plan with that little journal scheme of yours, and so far, he only has the diadem."

"I thought you were loyal; I thought you wanted to support his cause just like the rest of them," spluttered Varya, unsure what to make of this. Was Rosier toying with her?

"I joined Riddle during a time where I had lost myself. I was angry at the world, and I wanted revenge," he admitted shamefully, "But none of us knew what it would turn to at the time, and we were children."

"Are you saying you want to stop him?"

"Precisely."

"That might cost you your life; I hope you are aware."

"Never cared much for it to begin with," he smirked, and despite the odd light in his eyes, Varya could tell that the boy was incredibly unstable, "Besides, I believe it is time you had an ally of your own."

It was as if flowers bloomed in her lungs and something heavy lifted off of her shoulders, then she turned to him with moistening eyes. He gave her a smile that screamed of insurgence and instability, yet there it was— the first person who would ever understand her.

Although the Ravenclaws were excellent friends, they did not know half of what Varya was going through, and she could only wonder what would happen if they were to find out about the horrible things that she had done.

But Ren? His loyalty to her would mean something new entirely, and her body trembled as she almost broke down. He hugged her as she sobbed on his shoulder, and Varya gripped at his vest as he held her tight, and fuck, it felt as if the dust in her soul was finally settling. It was so foreign to her, but it felt right.

"We need to come up with something," he whispered in her ear, "He might ask me about the necklace, or he might go to the shop directly. Either way, Riddle will not let this die."

Varya sniffled and glanced up at him, "Can you just not say anything? Pretend that Naramir did not tell you anything?"

"If he finds out I lied, then it might cost me my head, and it would be a waste of a pretty face," he said, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, but Varya saw the way his eyes darted around in paranoia, "Realistically speaking, our best option is to bide our time out. Deny everything for as long as you can, and when the time comes, pray that his wrath will not destroy either of us."

Her breath came in firmer now, and she felt her throat cramp in fear. Riddle would not hurt her, would he? Not after last night, not when it had seemed that something other than hatred had finally broken through. But then again, she knew that betraying his trust could easily wreck the boy who was so used to being alone, and she could curse herself for not thinking her actions through.

"That sounds like a terrible plan," she mumbled as Rosier slowly got up, scrunching his nose at the dirt patch on his trousers.

"So far, it is the best that we can do," his tone was final, and he extended an arm out to the girl, who latched onto it as she rose to her feet. With a flick of her hand, her meal was packed, and she picked up the basket as they made their way back to the kitchen.

As soon as they walked in, they saw that Lestrange was talking to the house-keeper about what the decorations should look like, and Ren bowed to Varya before saying that he had to go get dressed. Now, the girl probably should have done the same thing, yet part of her did not want to attend any sort of party anymore, not when Tom continued being so hot and cold with her.

She made her way up the stairs, eyes passing the multiple portraits that were hung on the walls, and then walked to her room on the third floor, feeling utterly depleted. One house-elf was arranging her bed, and another one was hanging her gown on the door, yet both scrambled away once they saw her approach.

Varya sighed as she sat down at the vanity mirror, looking at her reflection with disgust. The radiance of her smile, the glow in her eyes, gone, and for what? It would all come back to haunt her, it seemed.

What she was worried about most was losing Tom's trust, however little she had earned, because the witch doubted Riddle was a man of second chances. And he would never understand that what she had done was for his own benefit, not unless Varya showed him everything, and that was not an option.

If Tom ever became aware of his future, everything would descend into chaos. His ambition would have him restless while trying to find a solution, perhaps even crueler in nature than before, and many would die. She doubted Tom was at a point in time where he could give up his stride for power. Perhaps, he never would, and Varya would have to always stay by his side and ruin his plans.

The knock on her door was loud, and her head snapped as she yelled for the guest to enter. Icarus Lestrange stepped in with utter flair, his lips in a tight smirk as he made his way to her and hopped to seat on the vanity.

"Do you have a partner for the ball?" he inquired, fluffy hair falling forward, and Varya raised an eyebrow.

"Riddle asked me," she said honestly, knowing there was no point in denying it. If they did end up attending together, then Icarus would find out either way.

The poison in his golden tinted eyes was evident, and he shifted uncomfortably on the mirror, remembering the position they had been in last time they were around a vanity. The girl made notice of it too, and a soft blush coated her cheeks as she powdered her face to hide it.

Varya pulled out the makeup that she owned, although not a lot, and set it on the table. Maxwell had offered to get her a helping lady, but she refused, as the girl thought they always made her look too pompous.

"If he does not show up, I can always escort you," he proposed while avoiding her stare, and the girl's heart broke. Why could he not stop trying? Could he not see that he had someone else to love him the way that he deserved?

"That would not be very courteous of me. Besides, I thought you had asked Elladora."

"I did, but she would understand—"

"I am not sure she would," cut Varya quickly, fighting the grimace, "I know I would be upset if my date decided to stand me up for someone else. And anyhow, I keep my faith that Riddle will come back any time soon. Where is he, anyway?"

"He is out," mumbled Lestrange. He was irritated, but the girl was right. He could not stand up Elladora. Even so, Icarus could only wish that Riddle would treat the Eastern witch better, "None of us have seen him all day, but the servants said he went to town by himself. God knows what artifact he is searching for."

"I doubt there would be anything of significance in a town market," mumbled Varya, yet dread settled over her as she remembered the locket dilemma.

"The most valuable things are always hidden where you least expect them to be. Anyhow, at least let Nott escort you if Riddle does not come back on time, it might be the first time he actually has a date for an event."

"He never seems to be interested in romance," smiled Varya, thinking fondly of the Nott heir, who only ever had eyes for his pages. She applied the slightest shadows to her eyes, trying to make it as proportional as possible. Regardless of the amount of glitter she used, however, her eyes never seemed to be alive.

"Maxwell is innocent like that," told Icarus, then something else took over his face, "He does not deserve your love, you know."

"Nott?" Varya quipped, trying to avoid the conversation, but Lestrange shot her a look, and she frowned, "Maybe not, but I sure do deserve his."

"What do you mean?"

"Something that burns me alive, something that drives me insane just like I have done to many others. I am not a good enough person to want a love that is pure, and— no, stop it, do not say anything. It is true, I am selfish and slightly on the verge of madness, and I believe the way I have grown up has made me attracted to people like him. It is easy to love someone who will never reciprocate when you do not think you deserve love."

Icarus stared at her through the mirror, his heart pained as he bit down the misery inside his chest. He could have loved her regardless of how messed up she was, and the witch's words made him realize that she did not even consider him as an option. Selfish indeed, but that was her, and she did not have to change for anyone.

"You went quiet," remarked the girl as her eyes flickered to him. He was standing by the door now, shoulder against the frame as his eyebrows knotted in an amalgam of concern, and perhaps he thought she was deranged for her words. That is why they could not work together, because he would never understand how her childhood had affected her, whereas Tom was in a similar position.

Icarus was a good guy— and that was the problem. He was a symbol of everything the girl had been deprived of, all of the light that had been taken away from her, and despite the fact that he was still of villainous character, there was a stark contrast between the two. Everything that Lestrange did, he chose because his position of privilege allowed him to. Everything Varya did, she had to do in order to survive another day.

"I mean, I disagree with you. There is not much to say," he twisted and leaned his head on the frame, crossing his arms in a stance of defense, "I understand that what you have gone through must have been hard, but—"

"Hard?" the girl choked, "I watched my friends die and forgot about them, I killed dozens of people because someone decided my body was no longer to be mine, I lost my parents to a cult. I have seen more darkness than all of you combined, and yet at the end of the day, I still try to keep a steady mind. Do you know how hard it is to keep it all together right now? Have any of you bothered asking how I feel? Or, better yet, apologizing for everything you have done?"

"I am sorry," the boy confessed suddenly, "I am sorry for not telling you or helping you back then, but you must understand that standing against Riddle itself is dangerous, and we all thought that what he was doing was justified at the time."

"And what do you think now?"

Icarus bit on his lip, and he swallowed harshly at the question he did not quite know himself. Varya stared at him with unprecedented intensity, begging him to admit his insubordination with Tom, take her side and help her clean this mess, but the boy looked away.

"You are playing with fire," he mumbled, and his hands fiddled with the hem of his shirt nervously, "If Riddle finds out what you have been doing, if he even hears a whisper of you trying to instigate this, he will have no mercy. And I am worried about you."

The girl frowned, "I am not doing anything."

He gave her an incredulous look, and yet she kept applying her makeup with shamelessness, completely dodging his eyes, made of Earth themselves, as they carried some awareness she was not ready to face. Icarus cared for her, that she knew, and it felt odd to receive such warmth from someone.

"Anyhow," he said as he pushed himself off of the door frame, "I must go get ready. But, Varya?"

"Yes?" she half-turned her face to him.

Lestrange sighed, and it felt as if he was saying goodbye to something, although he knew they would see each other again, "All I want for you is to be happy, and if that is not something you can achieve with me, then so be it. But Riddle will ruin you because his love will never be sincere, only obsessive. He will manipulate you, and I just hope you are strong enough to fight past it."

He closed the door, and Varya leaned over her vanity mirror with astonishment etched on her face. She pulled at her chapped lips with trepidation, and her stomach twisted as if a storm was nearing, and she was on a sinking ship that was so close to the coast, yet too far for her to save herself. Was this what her feelings for Riddle were? A sinking ship?

She went to her wardrobe and pulled out the gown Maxwell had sent her. White, classic, sophisticated. He had exquisite taste, and the witch let her fingers skim the lacey material before she put it on. The sleeves were long, and a cape of lace fell from her shoulders down her back in intricate patterns. At the back, strings of a corset pulled it together, and Varya walked to her mirror, trying to pull at them and get them to shut.

"You need help with that?"

The girl jumped at Tom's voice, and he stood by the door with his hands behind his back, and focused eyes were trained on her figure as she made an effort to cover her exposed back. He stood there in a dark suit— black turtleneck, black jacket, black pants — and her breath stilled as he approached her slowly, the slightest smirk on his face.

She backed into the mirror, eyes up and wide as he tilted his head to observe her, and he felt the same depravity spill in his body. What a sight it would be to have her broken and docile for him, to own her mind and soul completely. Tom wanted to overpower such a force of nature, an Obscurial, have her at his feet, and enjoy all she had to offer.

"I, uh—" she struggled, then flinched as he placed a hand to her side, leaning into her, controlling her moves.

The wizard twirled her softly, then grabbed her hip before he pressed her back to his chest. Riddle's fingers skimmed her neck before he moved her hair to the side, and then he trailed fingers on porcelain skill— something he could ruin, something he could burn. His nails dragged at the epidermis, and Varya bit back a whimper, eyes watering at the mixture of sensations.

Then, he finally grabbed her corset and pulled at it, his touch a phantom on her being, and yet it made her lungs of frost and her heart of fire as everything in her withered and plummeted. He was godly, and his allure was divine and satanic at the same time, and the warmth that radiated off of his body made Varya close her eyes as she fell back in his touch.

"Where were you?" she mumbled, entranced as his hands trailed down from her shoulders and to her arms, and he leaned his face over, breathing on her throat as she let her head fall back on his shoulder. Riddle placed a kiss below her jawline, then bit down with possessiveness, marking her before she would go to the ballroom.

"In town," he continued as he trailed his lips down her shoulder. The wizard stopped, and his eyes fell on the girl's ears with a nasty sneer— Icarus' earrings, "Why are you wearing those?"

Varya opened her eyes in confusion; then, her hand flew to her ears to see what he was referring to. Oh, the earrings, "I do not have another pair."

She did not take them off, and that made the boy frown even more. Tom did not like how it infuriated him, almost as if something else was marking her as his, but he bit down further comments. At the end of the day, it was him that was taking her to the party, him that would touch her. And he thought it to be only right; after all, Varya Petrov was his.

He stepped back regardless, lips pursed in annoyance, and then he extended a hand for the girl to grab. Varya did so, ignoring the way her heart drummed in her chest, and her fingers numbed where they touched him. She had never been quite so nervous, at least not for a party.

But there was the threat of the locket looming over her head, and she could not help but wonder what the boy would do when he found out. How would she get out of that complicated situation?

They walked into the hallway, passing the restless House Elves as they scrambled to set the last few details, and Varya gave them grateful smiles, whereas Tom kept his gaze forward, not even acknowledging them as they parted to let the pair through.

The entrance to the salon was from the main staircase, and the girl felt queasiness settle in as they neared the door, part of her not ready to walk in with Tom Riddle. It felt more prominent than it should have been, as if it was a grand gesture to the world that they had formed some type of unspoken bond.

Riddle, on the other hand, thought nothing of it. He was callous, and he cleared his throat as he signaled the doorman to let them through. The doors opened, revealing a luxurious scenery beyond, made of the finest champagne and the most immoral flirtatious exchanges. This was no usual ball, Varya realized, but a parade on unscrupulous behavior, an example set by Renold Rosier, Nicholas Avery, and Icarus Lestrange.

As soon as the pair stepped in, Varya felt the unwanted gazes of the guests on her, and she saw multiple witches scowl as she clung to Tom's arm. It made her wonder if Riddle had ever interacted with other girls at such events, but when he placed his other arm over her fingers that gripped his arm harsher, she found it did not matter that much.

"Where is everyone else?" she mumbled, face red at the proximity, and the witch needed no glass of expensive liquor to feel light-headed. Varya glanced up at him, then frowned. The look in his eyes, the slight twitch of his lips, the way his cheeks hollowed as he bit down on them— Tom Riddle was scheming.

She was about to say something else, but the boy cut her off, "By the bar, as always," he turned azure eyes to her, "I will escort you to them, but then I am afraid I must mingle and find some information for myself."

Varya raised an eyebrow, "What are you planning?"

Rogueish smirk on his lips, he tilted his head, surprised by her questioning. She need not worry about his affairs, though, so he placed a soft hand on her face, and when delight swam in her eyes, he knew he had gotten her where he wanted. Distract her with touches, with the illusion of affection, and then the witch will not stand in the way of his plans.

Riddle had much prepared for the upcoming weeks, and for everything to work out in his favor, the girl had to fall under an illusion of security and normalcy, "Nothing, darling. I must only secure my connections by engaging in mindless chatter."

He pulled at her arm and guided her towards the rest of the Knights, who were circling a table, rowdiness spilling from their parted lips as they chattered eagerly. Rosier and Lestrange were trying to imitate some sort of Scottish dance, their arms around each other's shoulder as they threw their feet to the tune of the music, champagne spilling from their overflowed glasses as they moved eagerly.

Rosier yelled to the music, earning a few surprised glances from the guests, and it made Nott groan into his palm in embarrassment, "This is my house, Renold. Merlin, you need to stop for a second."

But Rosier continued to hop around impatiently, only stopping when his eyes landed on Varya, and he whistled, "Delightful! We were wondering when you would show," his eyes flickered to Riddle, and he bowed his head in respect.

Tom detached himself from the group swiftly, motioning for Malfoy to follow him, and then they got lost into the sea of attendees, Petrov letting her eyes trail on their figures until she could no longer see them. Then, she took a seat by Elladora, who was dressed in a beautiful black gown, her hair falling in curls around her face, and her red lips trailed the edge of a wine glass, whereas dun eyes scanned the crowd.

She flickered her gaze to Varya, and a smirk nested in her face, "You have a little something," she pointed to her own neck, and the Eastern witch's eyes enlarged as she covered the spot Tom had bitten earlier with a nervous hand, face flushing in embarrassment.

"Shit," goddamned possessive freak, he surely knew what he was doing. Petrov cast a quick spell to hide it, and doubtfully gazed at Icarus, thanking the skies he had not noticed. He was very sensitive to the subject, and she did not want him knowing that she and Tom had been intimate.

Selwyn hummed, then got up from her seat, flipping her blazing red hair down her back and glancing around the room until she found a man suited for her taste, "It seems both of our partners have abandoned us for other men tonight. I will find myself a sweet replacement, and I suggest you do too."

With that, she strolled through people as they parted to make way for the breathtaking girl, and she stopped in front of a gentleman, not much older than her, ere her eyes glazed over with seduction. Before Varya even knew it, the girl had bewitched her new target, and Selwyn shot her a wink as she grabbed the doe-eyed boy to dance.

Varya sighed, knowing well that there was only one boy she wanted to share a dance with, and her eyes trailed the room searching for darkness, for the styled ebony hair and marine eyes. She saw Riddle chatting away with a group of people and marveled at his stance.

It was as if watching an event of proportions unfold, a demigod amongst commoners. The way he held himself— such superfluous grace, the slightest lethargy in his eyes that resonated of superiority, and even in the dim lights of the ballroom, his skin glowed of royalty and the slightest hint of nonchalance. His hand in his pocket, clenched, indicated that he found the conversation distasteful. Yet, Tom hid a sneer behind a glass of champagne as his eyebrows raised in sham interest at whatever the group was discussing.

One of the women stepped closer to him, and he threw a charming smile, albeit bogus, and she swooned over his alluring nature— a boy with such melancholy from his past, yet he had fought his way to the top. He was the romantic tear-jerking story, the fight for supremacy, the rise from dirt to Heavens. And then, it mattered not that his name sounded muggle, nor that he had grown in an orphanage, because he had covered his identity with connections to the rich and powerful — Malfoy, Lestrange, Rosier, Nott, Avery, and Selwyn. Then, he was part of the top of the hierarchy by association, and his dominant nature made him stand out, so even the most prejudiced bowed their heads in respect at the sound of his name.

Yet he hated it, and for what? His name carried no resonance of displeasure; regardless, Tom found it an insult to his accomplishments, a tie to something that he had tried to escape. Varya reasoned that it was not all he made it to be— regardless of how much power his name would carry, he would never accept it because it belonged to someone that had abandoned him. That was the greatest sin of his life, the origin of such a dark tale, and perhaps Tom believed his father had turned him into the monster that he was now. Perhaps, he resented it in some way, although he never would admit it.

"Have a glass of liquor, dear," preached Nicholas Avery as he sat down beside her, hair tussled, and collar opened, and she saw the sweat on his neck from the strenuous dancing. Multiple ladies had paraded themselves around him, and he took the time to entertain all.

"Do not fall for his temptation," mumbled Nott from behind, and Varya turned to find him gazing over a book with boredom. He flipped another page, then sighed deeply and bit his lip in frustration.

Avery grabbed the book from his hands and replaced it with a glass of wine, and his friend let out a revolted groan yet could not be bothered to fight against the devilish assassin.

"Why? So she can bore herself to death such as you?" pronounced Avery, and then he tossed the volume over his head, not even caring that it happened to hit the head of a guest, "Nott, for the love of Merlin, enjoy yourself."

"I enjoy myself when I read, thank you very much. Some of us are not psychotic extroverts."

"A shame," chipped Avery, then he snapped his finger at the waiter, "A full glass for the lady, please."

Tom's eyes danced around the room, and then they landed on her figure, and he watched her just as she had watched him previously. Her body was slumped in a chair, and jittery hands played with the seam of her sleeves and pulled at threads as the witch watched the dancing crowd.

Nott and Avery were bickering by her side, yet Varya's face was fallen in distress, and she paid no mind to the pair of friends. She was out of place amongst the backdrop of extravagance, and regardless of what her name should have meant, it amounted to nothing in her eyes, as she did not associate herself with the bourgeoise.

Varya, to him, was something he hated about the wizarding world the most— powerful sorcerers that cowered in front of their true calling because they were scared of consequences. Yet, he could not bring himself to loathe her thoroughly. Call it fascination with her unbalanced being, the mixture of thoughtfulness and macabre, but the boy could not deny that she was the most interesting woman he had met.

The girl could only reach her full potential and raise up to the witch he wanted her to be if she detached herself from everything good in her life. if Varya wholly depended on Tom. And she was his, so it was only fair that he strived to cut all ties with those around her and spin her mind with lies and deceit of affection to earn her loyalty and trust.

And when his mind wandered to the kiss they had shared last night, eyebrows furrowed and fingers tingled. It had felt different, a shift in his being, and he hated it. He hated how she mellowed him out and distracted him from his true purpose.

So after the encounter, he had devised a plan— Tom would finally make his first Horcrux.

His lips fell in a pleased smirk, and he hid it behind his glass yet again, then let his mind wander to the possibilities. His father's murder would not do— Riddle refused to have his name attached to anything that belonged to him, and every other one was too insignificant. He had to commit the act again; he had to find a new target.

The bloodlust in his system drove him insane, and his fingers tingled with anticipation as his mind spun with such grotesque flashes of flesh and blood, and fangs of snakes in bodies of whimpering women and men. Yes, he had the perfect target in mind.

_He glanced at Varya and smirked. Once he was done, she would have nobody else to rely on but him._


	51. chapter forty-nine

ROSIER SPUN her on the dance floor, snapping fingers and tapping feet in a mash of inebriated movements, and Varya threw her head back in a peal of lively laughter at the absolute chaos. She was not the finest dancer, yet Ren was too far gone to make any sense of what he was doing.

His purple tie was hanging untied from his hand as he wiped it around, side-stepping and singing the words to the ending song as his curls ruffled. Varya herself had beetle red cheeks, glazed over by sweat from an eventful night, and her lips were pulled in a glowing beam.

She squealed as he seized her hand and twisted her around, her legs tangling in her dress, and yet Varya felt delight and excitement as she twirled around eagerly. The ball had been going on for a few hours now, and under Nicholas Avery's command, she had had her fair share of champagne to drown out her displeasure at Tom for abandoning her.

Elladora had escaped from the scenery some time ago, and when she came back, her lipstick was slightly smudged, and her eyes shimmered with transgression, an indication that she had probably capsized that poor boy's night with her teasing and coquetting.

"Of course, nothing went past first base. And that is where the fun is, correct? Always have them think they have you where they want, then leave. It baffles them to no end. You have a lot to learn about such games."

Varya queried if that is where she had done wrong with Riddle— she had given everything to him, had let herself fall into his schemes knowingly. After all, there was little time for her left to enjoy, and that made her reckless. She wanted to be consumed by everything, knowing that she would probably never experience love at its fullest.

The party had died down by then, and Nott was by the entrance with Lestrange, bidding the guests farewell as they passed through, and Varya threw herself on an empty seat, pulling her stilettos off and massaging her feet to alleviate the stress of a danced night. Regardless of Tom's disappearance, she had enjoyed the party, and the rest of the Knights had as well.

"All right, let us get you back into your room," announced Abraxas as he clutched Rosier's jacket, trying to have him stay still, but the young boy was still booting his feet around. He threw his tie around Abraxas' neck and used it to pull him closer.

He grabbed Malfoy's hands, then started twirling him as well, earning a laugh from the two girls that stood by the side, "Dance with me, you little worm!"

"Bloody Hell, Rosier. Quiet down, will you?" shouted Lestrange from the side sardonically, yet he accompanied them in leaping aimlessly around the dance floor, delighted in causing disorder. Malfoy tried to pull away from the two troublemakers, yet his arms were soon immobilized by them, and Icarus bewitched an instrument that had been left behind by the band to play an effortless tune. 

"Dance, Abraxas! Move those hips that God blessed you with."

Nicholas pushed Nott towards Elladora before joining the other two men in disturbing Malfoy, and the younger boy huffed before extending a fatigued hand towards the girl, who smirked at the ferocious scowl in his eyes, "Avery says I dance with you, or he is shaving my eyebrows off."

The mentioned wizard yelled in approval from the side, then he continued shoving Malfoy around and moving his feet to the flute's peaceful song. The boys screamed every few counts, and the music much resembled that of an Irish pub rather than a refined party. Even Abraxas found himself joining in, an amused expression on his face.

"And I just happened to be the lesser evil, then?" the girl batter her eyelashes at him, yet Maxwell only rolled his eyes in abhorrence, not caring that he came off as aloof or disinterested. The girl was an older sister to him, and probably the only woman with who he felt comfortable enough to dance. She accepted his hand, then they stepped beside the rest of the Knights.

Varya watched from the sidelines as the group danced around the ballroom, snickering at the way Selwyn's face contorted into a scowl whenever Nott would step on her shoes or how Avery and Lestrange would scream the melody into Malfoy's ears. They looked youthful, heedless, and alive. A sight she would probably not forget for years, something that proved that they were still teenagers underneath all of the scheming and manipulation.

Her eyes darted to Riddle, who was sitting at a different table across the floor. He had discarded his jacket, his black turtleneck, and vest on display, and was fiddling with a half-empty champagne flute in his hand. He swirled the liquid aimlessly, and his eyes investigated the room before they settled on her, and Varya's breath hitched.

Tom raised the glass to his lips and downed the rest of the alcohol before placing it on the table and licking his lips. He stood up from his seat, then strode over with hands clasped behind his back and a fiendish smirk on his face.

Varya lifted an eyebrow to his extended hand, and Tom tilted his head, "It would be ill-mannered of me to let you go tonight without at least one dance," he murmured, then his eyes flashed to the rest of the group, "And we ought to join the last celebration before school starts again, do you not agree?"

Her heart drummed, and she wanted nothing more than to accept his offer, yet her mind was still clouded with irritation from his absence, "Not nearly," she stated bitterly, "At least, not after you ditched me the whole night."

Tom crouched before her, leveling his eyes with hers, and then rested one hand on her exposed thigh through the slit of the dress. He leaned forward, until his lips were close to hers, and his skin droned with expectation and desire, thrilled by her obstinate stare, "Unfortunately, I am always quite busy during such events, and truth be told, you are the first woman I have ever invited to such a ball. Fear not, for I am yours from now on."

His thumb trailed her lips as they parted in astonishment, and Tom found himself entranced by her features. He had heard other women whisper during the event, saying awful words about the Eastern witch's profile— how her beauty resembled a withered flower, something dead and cold in the Eden garden, an oddity amongst the blooming roses of youth.

Indeed, the girl had eyes dim as the night, and her smile never quite reached her eyes; she had no charm in her face, had not had so for a long time, yet Tom found that to be one of the better things about her— a face sullen with grief and despondency, something that showed that the witch had endured much in life and had conquered it all. No man that had seen as much murder as she had would ever have an intact mind.

"Are you?" her voice came in a hush as she leaned into the boy, closing her eyes as he trailed delicate fingers through her locks, calming down her mind, "I do not believe that for a second."

"Good girl," his lips pulled upwards, and then he rose to his feet, dragging her with him and on the dance floor. The guests had wholly vanished, and even the Knights had floundered into the main salon, letting the House-Elves clean up the ball floor.

With a snap of his fingers, Tom had them all exiting the room, and then he turned to face the abandoned instruments, charming them to play a somber song. The wizard's figure turned to Varya's, and then he clasped her waist and dragged her closer, their palms entangling together until their fingers were indistinguishable from each other. He glanced at his hand, frowning at the way his skin tingled at the contact, then quickly dismissed it and shifted to face her.

"Do not step on my feet," is what he stated, and Varya scoffed in exasperation, yet a smile graced her face.

He moved her easily across the floor, and for someone who had never had a date to such occasions, his dancing skills were well beyond those of boys their age. Of course, Tom had taken it up to himself to analyze the way people glided over ballroom floors for years, and had started imitating their moves soon after.

Varya, on the other hand, was clumsier, and she did, in fact, step on his toes multiple times, yet he did not care. Riddle much preferred her uncouth ways to the overly opulent ladies that he had waltzed with in previous years, forced by circumstances and socialization.

Then again, none of them had ever compared to the Eastern witch, and they never would. So regardless of parochial words thrown at her presentation, Tom knew they were never going to amount to anything. Then, he did not feel remorse when he had stuffed his hand in Elladora's poison bag and slipped some herbs in the women's drinks. He was not even sure what he had done, yet he knew it had been right.

He twirled Varya around, and she giggled as her gown spun around her, raven locks flying around and almost hitting the boy in the face. Then, he dragged her back to his chest, and placed soft hands on her waist as they swayed to a classical piece that had notes too low to be played in a ballroom. But they both much preferred the minor key, the somber acoustic.

"Have you enjoyed your night?" he inquired suddenly, eyes trained on her in such a manner the girl could only feel herself blush. He bit down a smirk at her response to him, and moved around her in a circle, palms connected.

"Would have done more so had I had a reliable partner," the Eastern witch taunted him, and then he twisted her until her back was against his chest, and he pressed ardent lips against her ear.

"My apologies. I should make it up to you, then, no?" Riddle murmured against her skin, and Varya closed her eyes for a second, taking in the way his body felt around hers.

She faced him, "And how exactly are you going to do that?"

Varya gasped as she felt Tom lower his lips to hers, and her heart drummed in confusion at the mixed signals she was receiving, unsure what to make of them. His hand rose from her waist and cupped her cheek as he moved his mouth eagerly, and he grasped her hair firmer, completely closing the space between them.

The boy's mind swirled as her citric perfume invaded his olfactive receptors, and he lowered as he pressed deeper into the kiss— he wanted more, he always did form her. So he hoisted up her body and let her legs surround his waist before he stumbled aimlessly towards one of the tables, letting her fall on the white top and detaching his lips from hers to look at her face.

Varya could see the ambivalence in his eyes, and her hand floated to his face as she touched it benevolently, hesitant. Her abdomen filled with a fluttering sensation when Tom closed his eyes and gripped her wrist, pressing a soft kiss to it. The wizard dragged her closer to him, then rested his head in the crook of her neck, inhaling her intoxicating perfume.

He trailed his lips upwards, one hand sliding under her dress and up her thigh until he felt lace, and then he bit on her earlobe and traced one finger over her underwear. Varya whimpered and dug her nails in his shoulder, earning a pleasured hiss from the boy.

She was surreal to him, and he explored the fluttering in his abdomen as he continued to press against her core, listening to her soft moans eagerly, needing to hear her depend on his touch, on him. Riddle was not sure what it all meant, yet one thing was certain— he wanted her around, and that was enough for him to become obsessive, compulsive.

The witch could never leave him; it was unacceptable. With a twist in his gut, Tom knew that he had to make her stay somehow, and the only way Varya would be if everyone else in her life abandoned her. After all, would the girl not pick someone else over him if given a chance?

Regardless of his power and intelligence, Tom was not a fool. He knew that he was not an ideal man to many, at least not his true self, and Varya had been exposed to his macabre for too long. The girl had watched him murder, had watched him torture, and eventually, she would surely flee if given the opportunity.

"Tom," her whine roused him, and Riddle bit his lip as he watched her face move to his touch. This is what he wanted— her under him, dependent on his every move, begging him for his touch.

"Yes, dear?"

She moved her hips against his palm yet again at the way he called her, and her mind swirled with rapture as he slid a finger inside, pushing it leisurely, teasingly. Varya sought to have him go faster, yet he stopped her from proceeding with a hand, pulling at her roots and a click of his tongue. Marine eyes trailed her face, and they held venom in them, mixed with satisfaction.

"Please," she managed to splutter out as he pressed lips to her collarbones, nibbling on the skin and marking her. He was playing with her, provoking her by moving extensively slow and watching her get more and more flustered.

"Say that again."

"Please, Tom," her voice grew even needier, and he smirked at that before finally sliding his finger in and out rhythmically, helping her hips move against his palm as he watched her succumb to his touch. And that was all he needed.

The girl trembled beneath his fingers, and clutched to his clothes and hair as her breath fanned his chest, and he let his head fall on her shoulder, placing hid head near her mouth so he could hear her better. He felt her walls constrict around his finger, and he let his tongue dart across her neck before tugging at her hair aggressively, making her purr in delight.

His thumb darted over her clit, and he whimpered as he sunk his nails into her scalp, "Exactly like that, yes," he rasped against her skin, "Need me, my little witch. Ask for me. Move against my palm."

Suddenly, he took his fingers out, and the girl was about to protest before she saw him undoing his belt, and he grabbed her ankles and placed them on top of the table, spreading her legs out and pulling her underwear down eagerly. She noticed his jittery hands, the way he seemed to shake with restlessness, and her eyes closed in ecstasy as she thought about pleasing him just as he did her.

"Now," he began before dragging her close and placing himself right near her entrance, and Varya huffed at the proximity, trying to get him to get on with it faster, "I want to hear you— everything. I want to know how good it feels, and let everyone in this manor know as well. Lestrange, Avery, Rosier, even Nott, I want them to avoid your eyes tomorrow because they heard the way you called my name. Have I made myself clear?"

The girl was about to protest, call him a lunatic for demanding such things from her, yet he chose that moment to slide in her, stretching her out and making her head twist with pain and pleasure.

"Have I?" he repeated himself, teeth gritted to stop himself from moving in her, from touching every inch of her skin. God, she was so tempting, but Tom had to make himself understood above else.

"Yes," she breathed, then circled her hands around his neck, and with the first thrust, she had to bite down on her lips from the sensation. He gripped her hips and moved along with her heartbeat, keeping eye contact as he slid in until his pelvis applied pressure to her nerve point. The table rattled underneath, and the boy's lips went to her neck as he kissed against her apollo heat.

She sunk her nails in his back, then grabbed at his hair and pulled his head away from her skin and to her lips, mashing their mouths as he continued to thrust into her core, and he groaned against her lips when the witch tightened around his member. Tom's hand went to her throat, and he pushed her roughly against the table to lie flat, gripping her skin tighter and enjoying her erratic pulse against his fingers. He squeezed it, and listened to the way she choked on her own moans, flustered by the pleasure she felt.

Varya tried to look away from his stare, embarrassed by her messy appearance, but he pulled her chin back, "No, I want to know exactly how you look when I do this to you," his voice was hoarse, and he closed his eyes and bit his lip when she tightened again, her mind spinning at the way he sounded.

And it was her doing this to him, it was her making him feel like this, and that was enough for the witch to see sparks behind her eyelids as she pushed her hips harder against his length, then gasped for air as the wizard's hold on her throat tightened, and his movements become erratic.

"Say my name," he demanded eagerly, and he gripped her hair and pulled her up, then undid her corset ties swiftly, knowing that he had tied them looser precisely for this moment. How fitting it was— he had been the one to help her get into her dress, and now he was the one taking her dress off. Just as he planned to be her everything, and yet her undoing.

"Tom," the witch whined, and tears pooled in her eyes as the white dress fell from her shoulders and exposed her body, which he then placed lips against, bitting down on the skin above her breast, then trailing his tongue on it and around the center. He groaned at that, and how fantastic it was to hear his name in such light. And Varya was the only one that could make it sound like that, as if it mattered and had a meaning behind it.

"Now, do it louder."

And she did just that as he felt his hand rub against her clit, and began moving her hips against his palm, meeting his continued thrusts as they grew even needier. Varya breathed laboriously as he continued pounding against her flesh, and then she stood up and pressed her lips against his neck, sucking a tender spot right beneath his jawline.

It was as if lightning struck them both, and she felt the pleasure ripple through her first as it all came down to a proportional tsunami. Her vision swirled, and her moment of undoing was when Tom whispered in her ear, "Nobody else will ever make you feel as I do, darling."

It was toxic, it was catastrophic, and she knew she was headed for heartbreak. But did it all matter when Riddle touched her like this, when he kissed her with need?

He continued to thrust into her with a storm of agitation, and regardless of her sensitivity, the girl let herself enjoy the way he felt inside of her, and looked at his flushed face and cardinal lips that proved sinfulness. Varya smirked, "And you think any other girl would satisfy you?".

Tom groaned, thrilled by her disobedience and arrogance, and Merlin, she made him act against his own nature. He immobilized her completely, and for a moment he lost himself in his frantic movement, face scrunching and biting down on his lips until he could taste metallic as he rammed into her fiercely.

"Fuck, fuck," he rasped as he felt his nerves fire up. He pulled out just in time, and then he closed his eyes harshly as he came undone over her legs, murmuring out her name in reverberation.

His forehead fell to rest on hers, and then marine pools of voidness sparkled with the slightest flicker of admiration before the wizard fastened his pants and tucked himself in. Riddle grabbed a few napkins from the table, then bowed between her legs and gently cleaned her up as the girl watched him breathless.

"Up," Tom ordered as he dragged her by the hand, and the witch pulled her dress upwards to her shoulder. He spun her around, then raised the sleeves and tied the corset carefully, ensuring that they were secure. Then, he gestured towards the ballroom doors, and they made their way out of the salon, taking the stairs to Varya's room.

He held on the witch's waist, helping her move smoothly, and traced his swollen lips with a finger as they fell in a pleased smirk. The servants dashed from their way, avoiding their disheveled figures, and he chuckled arrogantly.

"I never quite know what to expect with you," confessed Varya, overwhelmed by the way he was treating her, and Tom bit his cheek in irritation. They had reached her chamber, and she pushed her door open before stepping inside and looking over her shoulder— an invitation for him to come in.

"What do you mean by that?" the wizard asked with a tense voice, and he stepped inside the room, his lungs burning as everything smell of her fragrance. The girl stepped to her desk, and contemplated as her back was turned to him.

Petrov turned to face him, then tilted her head as she contemplated him. Tom Riddle stood in front of her as he always had— an apparition of enchantment and refinement, a virtuoso puppeteer that enjoyed toying with everyone around him, including her. He was of an evil seed, and his mind spun the darkness of the night as he plotted and schemed. Yet, he traced calloused hands over her body in a way that spoke of attraction and want, and regardless of his apparent deceitful nature, sometimes sparks of truth broke through.

The girl wondered, at that, who he was lying to more— to her or himself?

Riddle had barricaded emotions beyond a wall of trauma and mistreatment, as it was easier to face the world when nothing could hurt you. Varya saw in himself a mind of catastrophic dimensions, yet he did not act as a man who was not biologically able to feel. His impulsiveness, his narcissism, his satisfaction— those things did not come from nothingness, they were just shadows of monuments that triumphed behind ancient walls, and his heart was the Colosseum as gladiators of mistrust fought against sentiments.

The problem was, however, that for a soul like his, the phantom of happiness and content would be poisonous. Tom was not a boy used to feeling anything but anger and sadness, and had long ago given up on the idea of someone caring for him. If the walls were to fall down, if the Colosseum would be demolished, then it might just be the second fall of the Roman Empire.

"Well," the witch breathed as she stepped on the marble floor with wobbly legs, "I am unsure what you desire, or what to make of everything you do. Manipulation, deceit— they all come easily to you. I do not understand what you want from me, to be quite frank,"

Tom frowned, then gently took out a small box from his pocket, and held it up for her to see. It was not much, definitely not the same value as the silver earrings, yet he had had it personally designed for her. A sly smirk fell on his face, and he almost scoffed at the impression he would give. Yes, a present, but the meaning behind it was more profound.

Her future Horcrux.

He opened it slowly, then took out the pendant and moved her hair out of the way. Varya gasped as the cold metal touched her skin, and her features contorted into confusion— had he brought her a necklace?

That was too out of character for him, the girl thought, and her stomach churned with dread as her mind swirled over the multiple possibilities. Was it poisoned? Cursed? Her delicate fingers touched the metal circle that dangled from the chain and skimmed over the illustration— a skull and a snake.

"Morbid," she commented quickly, then turned to look at Riddle, who was staring at her necklace with a dazed look over his face. Almost as if feeling her eyes, he snapped out of it, then smirked.

"Now, you can leave that family crest of yours behind and embrace your future. This symbol, the mark of your Obscurus, will mean much more to the world," he declared, his timbre grave as his tongue hissed out the words, "Many will fear it, but many will understand the power it will carry."

There it was, the truth— this was his way of marking her, almost as if he had put a collar on her neck, and now her leash strung along to his every movement. The hunger in his eyes, the way they darkened with monstrosity, it sent a tremble down her spine, and her arms crossed over her waist in fright. There was something ominous about this mark, almost as if it screamed of macabre intentions.

"And here I was thinking you were giving me a present," she scoffed with irritation. Foolish her, expecting anything to have changed despite knowing that he schemed the way he breathed— easily, mechanically, as if the same part of the brain that commanded that automatic reflex had also taken control of his intentions.

"I am offering you more than I have to everyone else," Tom admitted with a fallen face, "I respect you; your power and mind are far mightier than most, and that makes me see a potential ally in you."

There was openness to that— Tom had never given anyone much importance before her. Even with the Knights, regardless of their acquaintanceship and peculiar dynamics, he did not find that he needed them by his side quite as much.

Varya bit her lip in aggravation, bulging her eyes at his constant refusal to acknowledge that they had long passed the frame of camaraderie, and the gripped the scissors on her desk with wrath, "You are so utterly ridiculous, Riddle. Allies? Is that all I am to you?" her voice fell in waves of frustration, scorned by his lack of receptiveness, "We have slept together, for Merlin's sake!"

Tom seized her hand that held the scissors as she waved it at him with murderous intent, "That was only a way to relieve frustration by raising levels of pleasure. Surely, you did not believe there was anything romantic about it. Petrov, darling," he grabbed her and pulled her close, smirk fallen in arrogance, "I do not succumb to mortal sentiments, I am well above that. A flaw, such as love, will never defeat me."

"You are so cynical," she spat, and tried to pull away from him, but the boy only gripped her tighter, "No, do not fucking touch me, Riddle."

"You are mine to do as I please with," he muttered, and he frowned at her behavior. It was beyond frustrating when she was ungrateful, and Riddle found himself digging nails in his palm to redirect the burn from his chest to his hands.

"I am not yours!" she thundered, "You cannot say I am yours and then tell me you do not care about me. Do you understand that? Do you understand that I am an actual person, Riddle?"

"That is ridiculous, Varya. How can you not be delighted to be offered such an opportunity? Do you know how many would gravel at my feet for such things? Foolish girl," the wizard spat out as he recoiled from her nails that swung at him, "You are destined for greatness, yet you let yourself be held back by ridiculous camaraderie with those of weaker mind."

"Well then go and find those people, Riddle! Because I could care less for your grand conquest, and I do not want to stand by your side as you destroy everything in your way, including yourself. I want something else, I want more," her voice came in waves of resonance, and Varya's face flushed with absolute fury.

"What am I supposed to do then?" he screamed right back, releasing her and stepping back as if burned, "I cannot feel, Varya! I cannot feel anything! I am dead on the inside, completely putrified to the point where I cannot even experience mundane things— music, food, drinks. You ask me to give you something I am not capable of, as if you did not already know this. I am offering the best I can give— power and glory— yet you fail to see it."

"Of course, I fail to fucking see it when all you do is manipulate me! And that is utter bullshit, Tom. You know as well as I do that you only fear opening yourself to it because you find it to be a weakness of soul and mind, something that took your mother away from you, something that corrupted your father's mentality."

"Do not psychoanalyze me, Petrov," Riddle huffed as he avoided her stare, his face reddened by anger and jaw set with disturbing tightness. He clasped his hands behind his back, then pressed his lips, "You have no idea what you are talking about, and I fail to see why this would be any of your concern regardless. What I feel— such ridiculous things that you worry for."

Varya stopped moving, and her cape of lace stood behind her as a somber look fell on her face. He watched her half-turned face with trepidation, and then one corner of her lips fell in a sardonic smile, cherry-red lips parted in wonder, "Why is this my concern?" her brittle voice came through, and then mistified irises turned to him, "Use your brain, Tom."

His lungs expanded as winter settled in one, and summer in the other, and Riddle found himself stuck to the ground as a spectrum of painted leaves fell around his pitiful soul as it glazed over with morning spring frost. His eyes, sapphire, dark, twisted, clashed against hers, and the boy lowered them in absolute resent at her words.

It was as if he metamorphosed into something young, a greener version of himself, a man of beginnings and no ends, and Tom fought back the queasiness as he shook her features out of his mind, and tried to make sense of things. The myth behind the man— the origins of the Dark Lord, a boy who had never had anyone to care for him, and had lived life in utter loneliness. Yet, it was easy to twist fate with words and spin it like a disc of a sweet tune.

He was a marooned ship in the Dead Sea, sailed by one sailor that had long given up on finding land, and as days passed, he grew delirious from exposure and dehydration. He was a priest that had forsaken the Lord, the almighty, and had lost all faith as he bowed in front of the altar one last time. He was the last bullet in a soldier's gun as he saw the enemy near, and the corpses of his battalion stood behind him.

_She could have been the land. She could have been the miracle. She could have been the grenade._

Tom's eyes burned with wrath as he looked up at her through sable eyelashes, and he blinked monotonically, a portrait of impassiveness amongst a gallery of expressionism art. Nimble fingers pulled at his collar, and his lips stretched in a grimace, "Do not dare say it."

She chuckled acoustically, nodding with irony as she bit on the inside of her cheek, then glanced at him with tenacity, "Why, Riddle?". Varya marched up to him, face proud as she let her lips move, "I—"

"Stop it, Petrov," he growled, trying to turn away, not wanting to hear anything from her cardinal lips. Her fingers grabbed at his coat, and he struggled against her. He pulled out his wand, aiming it directly at her heart.

Little did he know, there were easier ways to break her.

"Why? Scared you might feel something other than pain?"

"Not another word," he thundered, then pushed the Eastern witch back in panic as she came closer, sending her flying to the ground, and Varya screamed as her back collided with the mirror, shattering it against her ivory skin.

She winced as she felt her back throbb at the impact, yet gave a wicked smile at the pain, as it was utterly numbed by the pleasure she felt at Tom Riddle's absolute wrath. He fumed like a train in the Northern stations, and his face had colored as his blood pumped faster against rusted railroads that had been devised, yet not used before. His eyebrows had creased maddened anger, and he was not the composed sociopath he had once been.

Varya tilted her head, and danger screamed in her expressions as her eyes watered with anguish. Her mouth opened, and for a second, she debated everything. At some point, Riddle would find out about the locket, and when he did, there would be no place for her in his life. Her hands grasped the pendant around the neck, and she pressed her fingers against the engravement.

"I love you."

The world had been destined to burn on Judgement Day. Yet, it had never felt the loathsome stare of Tom Riddle, and Varya's heart shattered as the boy turned to void, and even darkness itself spread away from him, too terrified to stand in the way of his satanic tendencies.

It was the utter terror that settled on his face, the way his mouth puffed, and his eyes danced across her face, almost as if he was waiting for a punchline, almost as if he could not believe that she would ever be capable of adoring a monster like him.

Riddle was very much aware that he was not a man that most could fall for, at least not in his scrupulous true-self, yet the girl had seen him and his worst and still dared mutter such words of promise, and he felt himself grow angry. He had suspected her infatuation; after all, she showed many signs, yet love was something else entirely. It went past the realms of manipulation and deceit, it was more than a fascination of allure, and Tom could not handle that reality.

He could not dare think that he was anything less than a terrifying conqueror, a man of horrifying tales of greatness, an idealistic villain, because the moment he would do so, everything would shatter.

"Then," he breathed, stoic face looking at her, "You stand alone in such things."

She had expected it, yet it did not hurt any less, and she turned away to blink at watering eyes, and felt drops of crystal slide down her cerise cheeks, lips pulled tight to bight back wrecking sobs. Daggers stabbed at her soul, and he stood there, refusing to comfort her.

"Do I?" she whispered slowly, and regardless of her attempt at keeping herself composed, the witch broke before his eyes as she had never before.

"Love is nothing but a flaw, a fault," Tom Riddle said coldly as avoided irises of heliotrope, and the way they were clouded with sea mist, a storm nearing the edges, "Opening yourself to such vulnerability only makes enemies grow stronger, and to conquer everything, I must have no weakness, Petrov. I thought a skilled witch like you, a soul of the night spider's dark web, would understand. Yet, I find myself disappointed once again."

"Just as I am with you."

"Are you?" Tom scoffed, then glanced at her snotty figure with distaste, "Or have you been so brainwashed by your stupid feelings that you will never fault me? So ridiculous, so childish. Love comes with an expectation of someone sharing your feeling. I have no interest in doing as such, I only want you to depend on me."

"So, what are you saying?"

"That I will never be able to love you."

Varya grabbed on the desk's edge, using it as support to keep her feet balanced, and she glanced at the illusion of a human, the little devil that had completely wrecked her heart, and choked back words of anger and resentment. It mattered not how hoarse her voice would become at yelling such things, he was made of Hell's stone, and nothing could ever change that. She saw it now.

"Then," she managed to breathe, "I want nothing to do with you. I am not going to let you touch me and have me while playing with my heart like this. It is unfair to me, Tom. You are so unfair."

Riddle frowned at that, and his mind spun with conflict. A part of him wanted to reach out to the girl, fix her and ensure that she stayed sane, yet another part, the corrupted one, told him that he could not allow her weakness to destroy his plan.

Varya could try to leave now, and he would let her, yet when the time came, and he destroyed every string that attached her to the world, she would have to come back to him. It was natural, after all. She was his, and that was all there was to the story.

How could he want her and yet reject her affection at the same time? The girl could not understand his intricate thoughts, yet she was somewhat aware that Riddle simply did not want to let down his barricade. 

So he hardened his eyes, and let out a small scoff past his lips as he let them fall in a smirk, "Varya, my dear, do you not see it?" He turned to the door, then paced to it until he stood in the frame, then he glanced over his shoulder, "There is no escaping me. The day you walked into the Hogwarts castle, you belonged to me, and you can try to deny that, but at the end of the day, all will fall in place. Run all you want, but I will always find you. You will always come back to me."

That was all he said before he left the room, slamming the door behind him, and Varya sunk to her knees as she sobbed painfully and clutched her necklace, feeling the way it broke her heart. The only proof of their faulted relationship that remained. What was most terrifying, above all, was the little voice in her head that told her that Tom Riddle was absolutely right.


	52. chapter fifty

VARYA STOOD outside of the Nott Manor, eyes sunken in a downcasted expression, and she played her pendant between fragile digits, skimming the pattern of the skull and the snake as she waited for the Knights of Walpurgis to parade themselves down the entrance staircase.

It was Elladora Selwyn and Renold Rosier who arrived first, dressed in fine garments of the times, and Varya cherished the redhead's dark beret and long coat that she hid underneath, making her an apparition of obscuration and flame. Ren saluted the Eastern witch, and his eyes shimmered with shenanigans as they neared her.

"I see you are doing quite alright," he quipped, then his eyes fell on the necklace, "Beautiful thing there. I would ask who gave it to you, but I must say that everyone in the Manor heard it last night."

He winced as Elladora spanked him over the head, sending his curls flying around, "You filthy swine! Must I remind you how many times I have stood awake to you, pounding some girl on the wall behind my bed? Or, perhaps, that time, I walked in on you kissing that French waiter in the kitchens of my favorite restaurant on Rue du Moulin?"

"All in good faith, regardless."

"All of depravity and immorality, I say."

"Indiscretions are my specialty," the French boy sniggered, then he turned angelic eyes to the Eastern girl, "Worry not, I will not think much of it."

Varya bit down her lip apprehensively, then pressed hands against her flamed face. It was not Rosier that she was troubled about, but rather Icarus, who had surely heard everything. Right on cue, the Lestrange boy dragged his suitcase down with a morose look on his face. His eyes were bronze medallions, and his locks fell around his face in a perfect mixture of effortless beauty and style.

The girl stood woodenly in her spot as the wizard give her a nimble stare, then completely disregarded her as he strode by and threw his luggage in the back of a taxi. The driver tried to salute him, but Icarus only got into the backseat and slammed the door.

Through the darkened window, Petrov could still make out tight features and sleep-deprived eyes, and she wondered how much the boy had heard, if this was what Tom had wanted to achieve.

"Awkward," groused Rosier, and the fiery-haired girl elbowed him in his stomach, making him double over in pain, "Fucking hell, Selwyn."

The opulent lady only hoisted an eyebrow at his agony, then turned to face Varya, "Worry not, I will talk to him." With that, she strode over to the same car and got inside, taking a seat by Icarus and immediately turning to face him.

The guilt was indescribable, and Varya's apricot face grew melancholic as she remembered how she had used the boy, led him on, then had not even bothered discussing with him that she was sleeping with his friend. Her sable eyelashes moistened as she batted her tears away and tried to stay composed, knowing well that it was only her fault. After all, she could have refused Riddle at any point, but had been too focused on herself to realize what she was doing.

"He will get over it, do not worry," breathed Ren as he placed a gentle arm on the girl's fallen shoulders, "Or at least, he might be able to look you in the eyes soon enough."

"I messed up," admitted Varya.

"You did," was the answer she received from the fatalistic man, "But that is quite all right. We all do at some point, and the fact that you are aware of it is already half of the run to being forgiven."

With that, he made his way to the taxi car, and waved at her before stepping into the passenger seat and immediately throwing his feet on the dashboard, earning a displeased look from the driver. Rosier winked at him, then stuck his head out the window to send Varya a kiss with his hand, bringing at least some amusement to her face.

It was short-lived, however, as Riddle stepped out of the Manor, white dress shirt clinging to his figure as his blazer was thrown over his shoulder, and he gripped it with one hand. When his eyes landed on Varya, he stopped in his tracks, and then his eyes darted around, seemingly looking for an escape.

The girl scoffed at his demeanor, at his audacity to appear the one to be offended by what had happened. Why must he act as if the idea of being loved by her was such torture? Such repulsive behavior, and she made way to the driveway, looking for a car to take her back to London, yet blanched as she saw Nott and Avery pull Ren's car to the front.

Varya hiked an eyebrow at Maxwell as he gave her a disgraced look through the window, then he lashed his head forward, face turning claret, and he stiffened. Avery grinned in the driver's seat, and then he rolled a window down and glanced at the witch.

"Ignore Nott; he gets flustered whenever someone has a sex glow—"

"Nicholas, I will swerve the steering wheel into the opposite direction and make sure you drive into a tree," Not seethed at the boy, then glanced at Varya from the corner of his eye with an apologetic look.

"That is quite fine," the girl mumbled, although her fingers went back to play with the necklace tensely, and Riddle took that moment to step behind her. He glanced at her, then noticed she was still wearing the collier, and his stomach flipped with an odd sensation.

Tom made to open the door for her. Still, the girl dashed to the other side of the car, swinging it herself and then getting into the passenger seat, making sure to stay as close to the edge as possible, putting enough distance between the two that another person could fit in.

The wizard frowned at her behavior, and stepped into the care reluctantly, unsure why he suddenly felt cold all over. Tom fumbled with his blazer, restless, alert, and kept glancing at the Eastern witch every few seconds, unsure what to say.

Nott and Avery exchanged a spry glance through one of the car's mirrors, then pulled a face at the apparent tension between the two Slytherins in the back before starting the car and driving away from the house.

The drive was to be of at least three hours, and no matter how many times Nicholas would change the song and try to make aimless chatter, the silence between the two students in the back was distasteful. Truly, Nicholas did not know what to make of their relationship— he was as fucked up as one could get, yet there was still some strand of humanity left in him, whereas Tom Riddle had never cared for anyone.

Avery had to thank Maxwell for not letting him go down that path, for being the person that always called him out whenever he went too dark, when he took too much pleasure in killing. Frankly, the similarities between and he and their Lord were many, yet Avery had people to hold him down. He sometimes wondered if Varya would change that in Riddle.

The car pulled into a parking lot, Nott and Avery immediately dashing out and running to a store to grab some snacks and avoid the tension, pushing each other along the way. Varya bit her lip in annoyance and turned to face the window to avoid Riddle altogether.

"Are you not talking to me?" the boy huffed, obviously bothered by the idea of being ignored. He had never had someone act as if he was not there; his presence had always weighed too much in a room to be skimmed over.

The girl said nothing, eyes scanning the horizon as the early mist rose and vanished into the morning air.

"Petrov."

Nothing.

"All right then," Tom scoffed, then shifted in his seat awkwardly, eyes peeking at her side profile regardless. Something was eating at his mind, so he spoke up again, "I wanted to apologize for pushing you. That was discourteous of me."

The witch almost gasped, surprised at hearing such words from the boy, yet she fought with her mind and continued ignoring him. The wizard had done many things to her, and one apology would not cut it. Part of her knew he had gotten defensive at being touched, yet his reaction had been uncalled for.

Tom crossed his arms and sunk into the leather seat with a huff, nostrils flaring in inconvenience. Once, he had wanted nothing more than for the girl to shut up, and now he was utterly bothered by the fact that he was not the center of her attention.

The front doors opened, and the pair of boys stepped back inside, passing bags into the back and not daring to look in the eyes of the two bickering lovers. Maxwell sighed deeply, dragging a frustrated hand across his face, and then Nicholas suppressed a chuckle at his bothered appearance before shifting the gear and driving ahead.

The journey was torturous, and almost nobody muttered a word during the long car ride. Varya had pulled out her textbooks to scribble down notes for her upcoming classes and became completely oblivious to the pair of marine pools that kept analyzing her every move. It was Tom's obsessive nature that disliked the sudden development of events, and he wondered why his chest ached at her refusal to even look at him.

In his mind, she was being completely unfair. He had tried to give her a position by his side, power unlike any other Knight had would be bestowed on her, and yet the witch had refused all of his proposals. Tom did want her to join their cause; he wanted her to be with him through everything. Regardless, the boy could not feel what she wanted him to, and it was unfair to be asked such and reprimanded because of it.

It was only when they reached London that the tension seemed to dissipate somewhat, and only because it was almost time for the Hogwarts Express to leave the station. As soon as they passed the barrier, they saw one of the train staff members signal the start of its movement.

"Shit," muttered Nicholas, pushing the cart with their trunks faster, then wholly abandoning it as he threw each of them their baggage, "We are going to miss it."

The group ran eagerly, and just as the first puff of smoke left the engine, the three boys managed to grasp the metal bar of the staircase and pull themselves up. Nott stumbled into the hallway, followed by Tom, who landed graciously, and then Avery, who kept his head out of the open door to look at the girl that was scrambling to catch up with them.

Varya was much slower, and her feet dragged her across the platform as the wheels began to spin. She clutched the hat on her head, trying to keep it from falling as she held it with one hand, the other one sizing her luggage.

"Throw your luggage!" screamed Avery as the train gained momentum, and the girl threw her suitcase at him. The boy barely managed to catch it with clumsy fingers, and he passed it to Nott behind him, before extending his arm for her, "Grab it!"

Varya's digits darted forward as her feet continued to paddle against concrete, and her dress blew in the wind as she tried to grab the butcher's hand, yet just as their fingers glazed each other's, one of her shoe ties came undone, and the girl found herself plummeting to the ground.

The train moved past her at an increasing velocity, and its wheels turned continuously as her head raised from concrete and astonished eyes watched it move away from her. Nicholas' hair fluttered in the wind as his figure became smaller and smaller, and his mouth moved to let out a string of curses undoubtedly.

Then, his body was pulled back into the train, and Varya saw a figure jump out and stumble to the platform, dark shoes skidding slightly before they came to a stop, and Tom turned to face her with irritation in his eyes, almost as if he faulted her for having to intervene.

He walked to her slowly, and Varya narrowed her eyes at his expression before lifting up to her feet, dusting her dress, and cringing when she saw that it had been ripped near the edge. Her locks were in a tangled mess, and she ran soft hands through it before tying it back and standing straight to face Tom.

"How can you be so absolutely clumsy in such situations?" Tom groaned before he looked around, mind twisting as he tried to think of a way to get to Hogwarts on time. As far as he knew, no other trains were headed that way any time soon, so he grabbed her arm and checked his surroundings, only noticing a mechanic by the end of the railroad track. When the man twisted his back to them, Riddle pivoted on his feet, and the bodies of the two students enveloped in dark clouds and disappeared into thin air.

Varya gasped as her feet landed in the Knights' compartment, and then her body slammed into the ground as she fought back absolute nausea, loathing the way every atom in her body pinched and twisted. The girl had never Apparated, and she thanked Merlin that her limbs were still intact, as splinching was always a possibility with such things.

She shot Tom a glare, who only disregarded it as he sat down in his usual seat by the window. Abraxas gave the girl a hand, then helped her up before settling her on the seat opposite of Riddle, and handing her a flask of water.

Avery burst through the door, Nott running closely behind, "We have a problem! Varya and Riddle, they—" He stopped mid-sentence as he noticed the two mentioned wizards standing in the compartment; then, he furrowed his eyebrow before Maxwell kicked him through the threshold and made him sit down next to Selwyn.

Elladora gave his a displeased look, then flipped another page of her muggle magazine, apollo eyes scanning the rows of text, and she made notes of the various styles and coiffeurs. Her lips set in a snarl at the oddity of the garments, and then a hand grabbed one strand of vermilion red, twirling it in serpentinous moves.

It was a larger compartment than most, on the end of the wagons with chartreuse blinds dragged down, and brash amber covered the walls, making them look like the inside of a duck egg. The girl felt slightly uncomfortable between the collective of Slytherins, or perhaps it was just the invasive stare of the boy in front of her, who continued to study her every move regardless of her defensive gaze.

She wondered, then, why Riddle had even bothered helping her. The wizard had made it very clear that he would never be able to share her feelings, yet he seemed to come to her aid continually, and the girl was growing tired of the endless mind shredding at that mood switching of his.

Tom crossed his legs and leaned back in his seat, his thoughts corrupted by the same question. Why had he jumped out of the train when Avery had said that Varya had fallen? It had been his impulse, not even a coherent train of thought before taking action, and that was not characteristic of Riddle.

He was a calculative person, a well-versed academic that relied on logic, on the rationale, never on impulsiveness or sentiments. The only flaw he ever had was his booming rage, a serpent of venom and despair that poisoned his mind and turned it counter clock-wise. Yet, Riddle could not find that it had been wrath that had made him act, only the idea that there was something he had to make up for.

"We have matters to discuss," the Lord announced suddenly, voice imperious, and then with a twist of the hand, all blinds closed, letting the Slytherins fall in darkness before he made the light bulbs on the ceiling flash up.

Abraxas moved quickly, then pulled out some documents and passed them around the room, yet when he tried to reach out to Varya, the girl simply turned her head away and focused on the small table in front of her. She found herself scrapping at the paint on the table with chipped polish nails. Obsidian eyes traveled around the room, taking in how all Knights were giving her a mortified stare. She ignored them.

Tom blinked lethargically at her defiance, then decided he had no time for her mood swings, so he cleared his throat and addressed the room, "We have the diadem. Until we can further our plans with it, it will stay in Selwyn's possession, but now we must debate our next step. Rosier," he turned to face the young socialite, who was dangling a flask from his hands and had a look of dismay on his face, "What has Naramir told you?"

Ren stilled, and he kept his eyes from flickering to Varya, knowing well that the Dark Wizard would immediately catch onto that, "Nothing yet," he lied easily, "It is taking some time for her to trust me, I believe."

With narrowed eyes, Tom gave him an arrogant scoff, "Perhaps, I should speak with her myself, then. I see that your socialization techniques have rusted since you have been assigned this task," he stated before marking something down in his journal.

"My apologies, my Lord."

Varya had frozen completely, and as the rest of the Knights continued to discuss further movements— formidable names to bewitch, events to attend, wizards to question— she had started debating her own plan.

She had decided last night, after her conversation with Tom, that it was time she discussed with her Professor. It was only natural to do so, as Albus would be the only one to know how to handle such a situation. With Riddle's refusal to be loyal to her and only ever manipulating, Varya knew she could only put her faith in the Alchemy teacher.

The witch was not sure how the dialogue would unfold, as she had no intention of betraying the Knights and divulging their doings. After all, all of them would face the consequences, and some did not deserve to be punished. Besides that, Petrov herself had murdered two people, and regardless of Dumbledore's odd intention of helping her, she doubted he would look past the atrocious act.

"I need some air," exclaimed Icarus, and then he got up from his seat and darted outside, slamming the door behind him. The Eastern witch flinched in her seat, and once enough eyes fell on her, she got up from the couch and followed the boy outside.

He was standing by one of the windows, curls tousled by the wind, and his hands dangled on the edge of the threshold, holding his weight as his back slumped forward. Icarus' honey eyes were trained on the sky as he watched cotton clouds transverse in rapid motions, and when he heard soft steps behind him and felt the fragrance of the women he loved, his body stiffened all over.

"You did not have to follow me," he murmured before twisting his body to face her, and the coldness of his gaze made Varya shudder. She clamped her hands behind her back, then stepped forward.

"I know," her eyes gazed on the horizon as well, and she frowned as she saw one of the clouds take the shape of a disfigured triangle. She shook her head, then turned to Icarus, "I ought to apologize."

He stood in front of her stoically, unsure what to say, then he parted his lips with a sigh, "I sat in my bed last night, thinking it over, and not knowing if I wished you had told me that you were with him or not—"

"I am not," she said quickly, "with him, I mean. We are nothing but— well, I am not quite sure if we are anything at all."

"You do not have to lie to me."

"I am not!" Varya said, voice cracking from eagerness to explain herself, "I— I tried to make something of it, and yes, we have...well, done things. But Icarus, I am not seeing Tom."

"Do you love him?"

The question hurt her, and her heart splinched as she tried to sham some sort of dignity, yet found nothing in the pit of her soul except affection for the Slytherin prefect.

"I do," her confession stung, but Icarus had known this already, "And I told him that myself, but he made it quite clear that nothing would ever come of it, and that his feelings are merely out of a fascination for my power."

Icarus huffed, irritated by the way his chest still hurt when the blues of her timbre fell on his ears, and then he glared at the Knights' compartment, "He is fooling himself." Lestrange was not sure why he was admitting this, as it would have been easier to make the girl believe she meant nothing to Riddle, but he wanted to soothe her ache.

"I do not think he is. Tom has said—"

"Riddle says many empty things and threats, and he tries to distance himself from everyone because he believes he cannot be distracted, but believe me— he does care for you. In his own way, surely, but he does. And he is a buffoon for not admitting it to himself."

"I—" she did not know what to say, torn between wanting to believe Icarus and wishing he would stop plating the seed of doubt in her mind and watering it, "This is not about him, anyway. I wanted to apologize for hurting you. I do not think I ever did."

Icarus was at battle with himself, unsure if he wanted to accept her apology and fade back into the warmth that was the witch, or use the stinging in his chest to build a wall around his soul and entirely cut all ties with her. As a general, he should have chosen the second option almost immediately, yet he was not the fighter he had become under Riddle's command any longer, and perhaps it was time to surrender that sword. Warmth had finally won.

"Petrov," he chimed, then looked at her with a small smile, "I did say I will always be there for you. A Knight keeps his word, and regardless of how others might perceive Slytherins, we value our code of honor. Your apology is graciously accepted, just...just take care of your heart, yes? Make sure such a pretty thing does not break, or I might find myself collecting the shards."

Icarus stepped forward towards the witch, one hand surrounding her waist and bringing her closer, then used another to guide her head on his chest, and his eyes close as his face fell in her hair, taking in her fragrance. The heir's velvety lips placed a soft, comforting kiss on her forehead, and then he tightened his grip before letting go and taking a step back.

Varya felt cold as she watched him turn around and walk down the corridor, and she knew at that moment that Icarus Lestrange had finally given up on conquering her heart. It was a bittersweet feeling, and although she was glad that the boy could eventually move on, tears still fell down cerise cheeks. She patted them dry quickly, before pivoting on her feet and stumbling back to her compartment.

To her surprise, it was only Riddle that she found sitting inside. His chin was veiled by a veined hand as he looked at her with lifeless eyes, and his expression was resolute in apprehension. The boy's eyebrows were knitted in a choleric appearance, and he much resembled a demigod that had had his temper challenged by a mortal.

"For the love of fucking Merlin, what do you want?" hissed Varya, tired of his intruding presence. She knew he had dismissed the Knights to talk to her, and yet her mind found him no excuse regardless of the way her heart pounded.

Tom leaned over the table, hands resting on its surface as he supported his upper body with them, "I want you to talk to me."

"Why?" the girl asked suspiciously, "I believe you have made it quite clear that you will never be able to share my feelings, and that I am weak for engaging in such things. So stop looking at me like that, and if you have any humanity in you, just stay away from me and _let me move on with my life._ "

He stood silent, lips pursed as he contemplated her words. Indeed, why could he not simply let her go on with her day? Riddle thought it was because as much as he tried to suppress it, the witch's presence made him feel some sense of security that he had never experienced in his life.

Oddly enough, despite her weakness, he felt more assertive with her by her side, and even without her Obscurus, Tom doubted it would be easy for him to let her go. Yet, he feared her affection remarkably, almost as if it was some cure to a sickness he did not want to subdue, something that engineered his mind to work in nefarious ways.

"I need not justify my actions to you, but if you so insist— I wish you to take a position by my side in my conquest, and that will never happen if you continue mopping over something you cannot change," his voice was stentorian, like a King that was reprimanding a general for disobeying or showing lack of vigor during a battle, "Accept the reality of your situation and ponder over my offer."

"That is all?" Varya gave him another chance, regardless of the purgatorial fire of vexation that had nested in her soul. His eyebrows crooked in wonder at her tautness, and he breathed in deeply before plastering a bogus smile on his face, something that resonated with allure. Good old Tom and his venomous tricks.

"Of course."

_Liar. Liar. Liar._

"It is not enough," the witch resolved, then turned around and exited the wagon, slamming the door behind as her feet carried her away from his villainous presence.

Her words were sincere, she discerned, and that frightened her to the point of rattling bones, because loss of faith was a clear path to deprivation, and Varya seemed to dissociate more and more from her life at Hogwarts with each passing day. At some point, the quest of redeeming Tom Riddle had stopped being enough, and with his lack of affection for her, it only seemed that there was nothing left for the girl in that ancient castle.

***

How odd it was to see Hogwarts in such a light— mundane, humdrum. Despite the hubristic towers that stood against the leaden horizon, it all seemed to fall in a dull spiral compared to the dangerous calamities of the previous weeks. With the Whomping Willow blooming its newborn leaves and swaying in the April wind, the castle seemed much as it had always been.

Students of all backgrounds gathered through the entrance door, dragging their friends in enthusiasm towards the vast hallways they had come to know like the back of their hands, and some squealed in excitement as magic buzzed yet again through cracks and pots and books and wands. It was easy to forget that most Hogwarts students had not been allowed to practice magic during the holidays, and Varya wondered what their world must have looked like.

The Petrov witch spotted two figures standing near one of the gardens, and she dashed towards Ivy Trouche and Della Beauchamp, eager to let the past of Riddle settle in its grave and welcome the beginning of a new era.

Yet, as soon as she reached the two girls, they ceased their relentless whispers, and exchanged glances before gawking at the Eastern witch with recalcitrance. Varya halted in her steps and hoisted an eyebrow at their attitude.

"What is it?" she probed, perplexed by their corrosive gestures, and it was Trouche that scoffed in sardonic notes at the girl.

"I only told Della how you have been lying to all of us," she spat, her dragonic pride having taken her over. If one thing would stand against times and prove itself true of Ivy Trouche's character, it was that her morals swayed like grain plants in the faintest breeze, and perhaps it had been that reason that her hair was made of golden webs and the silkiest texture.

The Eastern witch found herself stuck to the ground, and her dark eyes turned to Della's despondent ones. Varya felt a lump of culpability metastasize in her core, and she parted her lips to say words of consolation, yet nothing came out.

"I just— I do not get it, really. You seemed to enjoy staying at my house, or was I foolish to believe a witch would be happy in a muggle-born's den?" the Ravenclaw prefect asked in a brittle voice, cascade of anguish and disappointment as she found fault in a friend she thought to be perfect, "You must have only said so if you wished to go somewhere else."

"Della," Petrov began, eyes darting to Ivy, who was still frowning in a rancorous expression, "It is not what it seems like, I swear! I loved spending time at your house, and I would have liked nothing more than to accompany you and Felix, but..."

"But Riddle's part was more important, of course," said Della with a crestfallen look, her maroon hair swinging in the breeze as it fell past her shoulders, "Perhaps this will sound selfish, or maybe even stupid but, well— I have always wondered what those parties were like. Of course, I could never attend, because they hate people like me, do they not? I never told you this, but do you remember when you left me alone in that compartment with your friends to chase that boy?"

Varya barely croaked out a reply, "Yes."

"You left me in a compartment full of people that hated me for existing, that would gladly slit my hands and watch me bleed for their enjoyment, only because their privilege has allowed them to believe they hold such godly power," Della whimpered, and even now her eyes were kind.

"Maxwell was the decent one. He conversed about this and that, but the rest, they— well, they did not have the kindest eyes, nor the most innocent mouths. And I was naive to believe that chasing one of them, Malfoy, and somehow earning his affection, would make them finally see beyond this wicked little flaw that they seem to detest so much. Silly me, I suppose, because they never will, right?"

No, they would not. At least not while Tom Riddle dominated their minds and souls, not while he was a parasite that sucked on kindness and brightness. But Varya kept silent, because what more could she say?

"I did not fault you for it; I did not have the heart for such things. You probably did not know how scared I would be; after all, you never experienced such hatred because of something that was not your fault. But this? The lies are too much, and they are starting to run too deep. I wanted to see the light in you, but they are extinguishing every flicker of good in your soul with their prejudice."

"They are not good people," interjected Ivy, "I know it might seem so in the grand scheme of things. But the things they have done are not of sane mind, and you know that."

"You are only as good as those you associate yourself with, and if you believe that you can excuse their fanaticism and stay around them, then perhaps you are not as righteous as I once thought," said Della swiftly, "And I know you have pure intentions, I know you want to change them, but that is not your burden to shoulder."

One thing that the two girls did not understand, however, was that Varya was not good either. She had never been. She had danced the fine line of somber gray with tentative steps her whole life, always a mash of wicked and angelic, never quite picking a side. The witch could not see the bother, for no person would ever indeed be black or white, and would only delude themselves into believing that. At their age, there was still so much space for growth.

"I am sorry," Petrov breathed, and her hands shook behind her back as a tsunami of emotions drowned her, almost as if commanded by the god of the sea as punishment for her insubordination. Last she remembered, though, Poseidon did not have eyes of cerulean, curls of voidness, and a viper smile. Regardless, Varya was terrified of the vast oceans.

Della nodded softly, yet her eyes were enough of a telling— she could not forgive the Eastern witch, at least not yet. Her hand grabbed Ivy's, and they both turned their backs to Varya before marching to the entrance, a tornado of golden and earthly tones.

Varya's heart seemed to disintegrate, and she clutched the necklace for stability— a habit that she had developed unconsciously after relying on Riddle one too many times to save her. He was gone, though, at least in the way that she had wanted him, and the girl found herself standing alone in the middle of the courtyard, eyes flooded with fear of something she realized no longer suited her. Loneliness.

Her love for Riddle, catastrophic down to the core, had ravaged her of everything and nothing, and had made her spiral into a cataract of degeneracy that she was not sure she could ever get back from.

She was uncertain, at that moment, which one was more parasitical— her Obscurus or her love for Tom. Both had assured her demise, one in physical, the other one in spiritual, and now the girl doubted what would be left of her in the end, once she had been consumed by all.

Tom, a fanatical demagogue with the tongue of an elapid, yet the beauty of a fallen angel banished from Heaven for his scrupulous mind. And her, a book of biblical connotations that he read like a poem of promise, yet cast to the side when it presented nothing but gospels of divination and affection, nothing of nihilistic quality.

He had made a vessel of her, a carrier of a weapon that he had so desired since the beginning, and with his manipulation had outrooted her substantial connections to everything that was still virtuous in her life.

And how pathetic it was that, regardless of the complete destruction of her everything, she still would have loved him soundly, would have cherished his affection to the point of consumption, and would have doused him in tenderness like the arsonist he thought her to be, burning his demons to the ground.

Some people did not want to be saved, though, and they walked the pavement of Hell as one would in the garden of Eden, smiling at the tormented wails of damned souls that had been corrupted just as them. Riddle was no different— he was a calamity, a demon sent to burn Earth for its immorality, and perhaps, in the end, it all came down to fate, and Armageddon was truly inevitable.

"Varya?" Felix's concerned voice rang through her being, and the girl gazed at the magenta horizon that had colored itself in opalescence. How long had she been standing outside for?

She turned to face her dear friend, whose face had twisted in agitation at her rheumy eyes, and the witch immediately threw weakened arms around his neck in a desperate attempt of comfort. But, perhaps, he hated her too, and she stood alone as her impending doom neared.

"What happened?" he asked quickly, running gentle fingers through her hair as his eyes blinked rapidly in astonishment.

Through sniffles and wetness, a croaky voice resonated, "Della hates me. I lied to her about our break, and I went with Tom instead. But you have to understand me, Felix. You have to!"

"Slow down," he pushed her away slightly to look into her eyes that had turned to the color of the night, "Della would never loath you, be aware of that. She is sensitive, and I might have played a part in that; I apologize. Things were...well, things went south during the break between us, and I think the idea of you abandoning her was what filled her glass. But I will talk to her, yes? There is always a solution."

"What happened?" Varya asked, wiping her nose with her sleeve before moving wet strands off of her face.

Felix blushed, and then his body was sent in a coughing fit, and he avoided her stare after her question. His ears had turned bright rogue, and his eyes moved with spasmodic strokes as he tried to explain by gesticulating vividly, "Things! Things happened, and I said certain— well, she did not want to hear my part. So then I did something that sent her in a bit of a shock, and we have not spoken since."

"I do not understand," Varya breathed, and the boy only waved her off in embarrassment before grabbing her arm and dragging her towards the castle.

"Just let it be," he squeaked, "Why did you have to go with Tom, anyhow?"

Varya stopped in her tracks, heart pounding as she struggled to answer the question truthfully. She needed to let it out; she needed honesty, at least with one person in her life that was not tied to Tom. But how would Felix react? Would he not just run away from everything? Even so, she had to try; she needed a pillar of stability in her life.

So her mouth parted, and the hurricane blasted everything to bits, and with each storm, the forest in Felix's eyes dulled to fire, and his skin blanched as vigor left and was replaced by mortification. He trembled, he stilled, he stopped breathing, he gulped, and then the cycle repeated itself.

Her story, a fable of darkness and devilry, preached of a young girl that had never found warmth in the embrace of a mother, and had had everything taken from her by life as a cruel joke, a jab at the Heavens and whatever Lord dared rule it. Less of a human, more of a machine, and nobody ever truly cared for her. A needle of fate threaded its string of love through her body, stitching up pieces and parts in weird patterns, and nothing fit, but at least she was whole. Then, the sews came undone, and somehow it all felt more empty than it had before.

When her lips finally settled, Felix was gripping her arm so tight it might have bruised, and Varya could see the turmoil in them. He was a good man, a pure soul, and of course, nobody would expect him to understand her immorality.

Yet, his arms moved fast, and he pulled her in a tight embrace, holding onto her for dear life. She was his friend, one of the few people he had allowed himself to care for, and damned be everything if Parkin's loyalty would waver at the sigh of inconvenience.

"Holy marbles, Petrov," he rasped into her hair as she shuddered in his arms, "How are you still sane?"

"I wonder myself sometimes, but it is everything I have ever known," Varya's answer was bittersweet, "I understand if you want to run, many would."

Felix backed a little, looking at her with glossy eyes, and then he groaned and ran a hand over his face before covering his mouth with it as he thought about what else to say. He threw it to the side, then bit down on his lip in frustration, "I mean, it is not an easy thing to wrap your head around— you bloody murdered people and destroyed castles, it all seems one enormous villain story. But," he struggled to piece it together, "What else could you do? You had to survive somehow, and at the end of the day, I try to put myself in your shoes and understand everything. I would not have been able to resist half of the things you have gone through, truth be told, and well, I do not know, Petrov. Something in me cannot fault you."

"Thank you," she said sincerely, grabbing his hand in gratitude, "Thank you so much."

"And Riddle," Felix continued, "He is unthinkable to me. The way you describe everything, call it intuition, but you are more to him than anyone else. He must be scared."

The witch scoffed, vulpine eyes scanning her friend's face, "Scared? Why would he ever be scared?"

"I mean, I am not trying to excuse what he has done," said the boy as he wrapped one arm around her shoulder and started leading them to the entrance again, "But I know I would be terrified of having someone love me after being born and abandoned out of sham affection. What perspective of such feelings would I have, then? As you said, his mother bewitched his father, and he was born out of a scam of love. So all that he knows of such sentiments is that it led to his miserable life."

"I never had my parents with me either, and my childhood was much more traumatic, yet I am still capable of handling such thoughts."

"And you are insanely strong for that, but he might not be. As a matter of fact, I suspect his strive for magical power is to mask his lack of emotional strength. He is not in charge of his mind no matter how much he wants to believe that he is, so he will try to appear mighty in other ways."

"Well, he cannot expect me just to stand by and accept his manipulation until he handles himself," said the girl weakly, eyes unfocused as they entered the castle.

Felix gave her a smile, "You are completely right— loving a person wholeheartedly does not mean you have to fix them," his answer was simple, yet debatable, "But you might try to, and that is fine as well. Though, you cannot fix a broken person when you yourself are not whole, and I believe that was your biggest mistake."

"What do you mean?"

"You have been grieving silently for months now, you have had your mind and soul completely wrecked from the revelations of your past, and yet not for one second have you stopped to pick yourself up," Parkin's voice fell in a hush as they passed the portraits, "What you experienced— it is Hell's worst nightmare. Varya, you are broken and mourning still, so how do you expect to help Riddle when you cannot even help yourself?"

His words were truthful, and they fell heavily on her shoulders. She had blocked everything out of her mind, had acted as if Ivan and Ecaterina's deaths had not awoken some deep agony in her, and Varya had not taken time to heal from everything fully. The past few months had been a constant of peril and venture instigated by the Machiavellian character of Tom Riddle. 

"So, what do I do?"

"I am not sure," answered Felix honestly, "I think you start by talking to Dumbledore. There has to be a solution to your situation. You have to start taking everything one step at a time and stop throwing yourself at every possible danger. Breathe, Think, then act."

"You are right," Varya admitted to herself, and she knew that as soon as she could, she would be paying her Professor a visit.

"Of course I am," quipped the boy, "That is why I was sorted into Ravenclaw, and you were not."

Their laughter resonated through the halls, echoing as it ricocheted off of every stone wall and traveled through the castle at high speeds, right to one open window on the third floor, where a looming figure had sat in darkness the whole time and watched over the affectionate exchanges that had passed between the two friends.

Tom's eyes had turned cobalt from incendiary wrath, and a trenchant stab of pain pulsed in his chest as his face turned to something heinous, barbarous. Anemone lips were pulled in the tightest possible sneer as he stood in his spot, unable to move, and his arms tingled with indescribable awareness.

He was dark-souled, and as much as he tried to push away the sinking feeling in his chest, make of it something that was not, it sounded through his being— _jealousy_. Riddle's dastardly nature stormed through everything, and he pivoted on his feet as he finally released his tight grip on the window frame from where he had watched Varya cry on Parkin's shoulder. His dark robes were the last thing that the moonlight touched, and then, where a phantom of a viper had been, only a broken glass stood. One that he had squeezed too tight out of irritation.

_And for a boy that claimed to feel nothing, he undoubtedly felt a lot now._


	53. chapter fifty-one

_Silence._

The first warning of danger had always been silence. The lull before the hurricane, the sand that settled before a tornado, the ocean that retracted before a tsunami. Tactunity of nature and being was unnatural in a cosmos ruled by entropy, where the primal state of everything was chaos. Nothing ever defied the laws of the universe, and balance was a human-made fantasy to preserve sanity.

_Hogwarts was silent._

Almost robotic in motions, students clambered through shelves of books, and the dust of the library began to clear as the final exams of the year started. Quills scratched feverously against jaundiced-looking parchments, and the ink dried of many words that would be memorized for a few days before they faded into the nothingness of subconsciousness.

The Knights of Walpurgis stood at one table in the far corner, a silencing charm cast around them, and to anyone who might have passed by, they appeared as extraordinary students that had already started learning for their O.W.L.s.

To some extent, that was true, as Elladora Selwyn charmed her pen to write down every note she whispered between cardinal lips, braiding parts of her hair with jittery hands. Her parents, world-renown lecturers in the wizarding world, had been very clear on their expectations of the young girl. After losing the prefect position to Ivy Trouche, as well as an invitation to the Slug Club, the Selwyn heir had been on the rocks with her family.

Another person who was ever-so-stressed was Icarus Lestrange— a man many lauded for his fierceness in battle, yet none looked up to on the intellectual plane. He was far from being a lousy student, yet his star of knowledge never shone quite as vivaciously as the rest of the knights, so he had surrounded himself with multiple textbooks. And he marked, he jotted, he scribbled, and he teared up when it all became too much.

Nicholas Avery, despite his impish appearance, happened to be one of the most brilliant students to walk around Hogwarts. He, unlike most academics, was a homogenous solution of brain and street-smart, so he had uncovered his own studying methods long ago— focus on the most demanding tasks, those that seem to rattle every student, and only ever worry about the easier ones when the time comes. He had priorities.

Renold Rosier did not care for his exams, not when they were still a few weeks away, so his legs rested on the table as his head hung back in slight wave-like motions, humming himself a syrupy melody he had heard on the muggle radio not too long ago. His leg accidentally kicked Malfoy's inkpot over his parchment, which earned a dissatisfied growl from the heir.

"Legs off the table," he barked sternly in that authoritative voice of his, and Rosier peeped at him briefly before fixing his notes and inkpot with a quick charm.

"Whatever you say, mum."

"Do not call me that."

"Sure thing, dad."

Maxwell Nott rolled his eyes at their exchange, then stuffed his nose right back between the pages of his Transfiguration textbook, rereading the same paragraph for the nth time, almost as if he did not know most of the volume by heart. His photographic memory, a true gift of intelligence, had him at least a year ahead in academics, yet his obsessive nature always doubted his capacity to retain the information. Truthfully, Maxwell Nott was a genius, and the only person that ever competed with him besides Varya Petrov happened to be his trusted leader— Tom Riddle.

Tom stood at the head of the table, as sovereign as always, chin rested in his palm as cerulean eyes settled with flames on one lonesome girl on the opposite side of the library— Varya Petrov. His heart of stone drummed in his ribcage as he watched her weary eyes blink away somnolence, and she rested her cloudy head on the textbook in front of her before letting the luscious escape of false reality take over. Riddle shifted in his seat, then crumbled in his hand a piece of paper that he had just received for Naramir Borgin.

_He, too, was silent._

***

"You are salivating on my DADA volume," grunted Felix Parkin as he sat down in the chair opposite of the Eastern witch, two coffee cups in his hands that he graciously placed on the table. When the girl made no move to awaken, he sighed, then poked her harshly in the side, earning a small scream and a sleepy death-glare. The witch's head shot up reluctantly, and she pressed gentle hands against stingy eyes.

Varya huffed as her fingers made to settle down her unkempt hair, then she took the coffee and sipped on it eagerly, letting the energy slip through her bloodstream and awaken her brain, "I have been studying relentlessly, and my quality of sleep has decreased."

Many things had been keeping the witch awake. Ivy had avoided her completely in their shared room; her recalcitrance was so apparent that even Elladora had taken pity on the Eastern witch. They had had no chance to smoothen over their differences, and the tension only grew exponentially under the stress of their upcoming O.W.L.s, so much so that an explosion was imminent.

Tom had been entirely absent, a phantom in the background of her quotidian routine, as the girl had taken her time away from him to go back to a semblance of sanity. They saw each other in class and the Common Room, yet both turned their heads away fastly.

Della Beauchamp had also been absent from her life in the two weeks since their return to school, and no matter how many times Varya had tried to approach her in the Great Hall, the Ravenclaw prefect would simply run away from her friend, too scared of confrontation.

"Has Della spoken to you?" Varya questioned Felix, who had been seeing the girl in their student patrol meetings. As Head Boy, the Parkin heir had to have interactions with the muggle-born witch from time to time, regardless of her evasive nature.

He shook his head silently, "Not since London, no."

"May I know what happened, then?" Varya probed further. She could understand the fallout between her and her friend, yet as far as the witch knew, Della and Felix had always been on good terms.

The boy shifted in his seat, and once again, his face went beetle red as he twirled his cup of hot liquid in his hands, "I kissed her," he confessed eventually, and Varya choked on her drink.

"You kissed her?" she hissed, surprised by the idea that the boy had ever liked their friend. Indeed, Della was a gorgeous young witch who rivaled those of Beauxbatons, yet there had never seemed to be any romanticism between the two.

"Bloody Hell, I did," he groaned, pulling at his roots, "It was an impulsive move. We were sitting in her bedroom, and she had this...this awestruck expression as she looked at those ridiculous stars on her ceiling and told me about her dad. And she was beautiful, breathtaking, and there was this twisting feeling in my chest as my breath halted. I wanted to touch her face, so I did, and she flinched under my hold but gazed at me with her doe eyes—"

"And you kissed her," finished Varya, obsidian eyes enlarged with astonishment.

"And I kissed her," breathed the boy in exasperation, "She kissed back, at first. Her lips are soft, welcoming, and my heart melted in her hold. Then, she pulled away and looked at me as if I had grown a second head. Of course, she fancies Malfoy, so what was I expecting?"

"Merlin, Parkin— I never even knew you liked her."

"I did not know either; it was an avalanche of surprise, believe me," Felix glanced around the room, looking for a docile girl with the smile of summer, "It is hopeless, anyway. For some reason, she is head over heels for that prick that will never look at her. I mean, come on!"

Varya sighed over her cup, before drinking it down until the last drop. Her eyes flickered to the table on the far end, where the Knights were susurrating like serpents, a mirage of elitism and poshness, and their masks of enamel covered depravity unlike any other. The witch's eyes met Tom's, and it all came back— a wave of catastrophe and longing.

She missed his lips, missed his touch, missed his voice, missed his candied words that distorted her mind, and played it like a harpe. How odd it was, that her soul belonged to the devil, yet no pact had ever been made.

The wizard furrowed his eyebrows, and in his irises, floated some sort of consciousness the girl had not seen before— close to regret, yet it was the faintest breeze in a hurricane that he owed her. The witch wanted to believe that he missed her presence as she did him, yet was very much aware that snakes were cold-blooded.

Felix groaned as he grabbed his head, "My head hurts," he complained, and for a second Varya rolled her eyes before realization settled in.

"Close your mind in, right now," she ordered in panic, eyes flashing back to Tom, who now had indignation plastered all over as Felix built up bricks around his thoughts, making them harder to decipher.

Petrov's heart pumped blood erratically as she grabbed her friend's hand and dragged them out of the library, not even bothering to glance back before the door shut behind them. She pulled Felix to the next hallway, then stopped and clutched her chest as her breathing became irregular. Damned Tom Riddle, always toying with the minds of those around him.

"He tried using Legilimency on me, did he not?" the boy inhaled by her side, hand still massaging his temples, and he thanked Heavens for being two years ahead of them and knowing the defensive tactics.

"Yes," Varya answered, and she pulled at raven hair in frustration, her pale skin glistening with the faintest sweat of frenzy. She had almost lost everything. If Tom had seen anything of proportion, all would be doomed. Yet, luck was on her side, and the conversation at the time had been on Felixius' affection for the Ravenclaw prefect, "I doubt he saw anything of importance; he had no time, but guard your thoughts in his vicinity from now on."

"Yes, ma'am," he quipped, then glanced around, "Let us head to our History of Magic class, then. Worrying about Riddle is pointless as of now; you must speak with Dumbledore first. When did you say you were meeting him?"

Varya pursed her lips, dread settling in her stomach, "Tonight."

"Well, finally! I know you trust in the man is lost, but he must be better than Riddle at least and—oh, what is with that face?"

The girl closed her eyes as they walked the corridor slowly, her stomach churning, "It is just, well...I am not sure what to tell the Professor. I want to protect the Knights, of course, and I have no intention in betraying them, yet how do I spin my story without letting everything spill?"

"Say only what you must, then," answered Parkin before he pushed open the door to their class, and the sonorous chatter of students fell upon their ears.

Professor Cuthert Binns, a scrawny older man who preached in a flat, monotonous timbre, only ever spoke of History and nothing else. His lectures were, perhaps, the least exciting at Hogwarts, and many took the class as an opportunity to write essays for their other courses. Varya immensely enjoyed the teachings, though, as she had always found history to be an essential subject.

"Take your seats," Binns ordered slowly, a small man behind a large desk, and his gray hair stuck out in odd patterns, making him seem lunatic and unsettled. He flipped the pages of the textbook open, and then announced that day's lecture, "Now, with your O.W.L.s approaching, I see it only fitting that we discuss the previous material. We will be going over the...the...curriculum."

His speech was slurred as he blinked with drowsiness, and then he yawned loudly before smacking his old lips in tiredness. Varya sighed, then shook her head before grabbing her textbook and flipping through the pages without a clear thought in mind.

***

The witch stood frozen in front of Dumbledore's office, her mind swirling with trepidation as she raised a flabby hand to knock on the sturdy wood. A vacuum of fright absorbed all sanity from her mind, and when the Professor's voice sounded from the room, telling her to come in, she swallowed in the void and opened the door, stepping into his space.

It had not changed much ever since her last visit all those months ago, yet it all felt so foreign to her. Once, she had considered it a safe space from Riddle's scheming, but now it was only another precarious spot.

"Varya," Album hummed from his desk, youthful eyes shining with surprise, "I was wondering when you would reappear. I thought it to be sooner. Nonetheless, I am glad you want to talk. Take a seat, please."

She did just that, pulling at her sweater as the heat of guilt buzzed underneath her skin, and the witch cleared her throat, "There is much to talk about."

"Indeed, there is," stated Dumbledore, sky-blue eyes analyzing her properly, "It seems you are quite troubled."

"I know," she managed to squawk out, pushing her hair behind her ear in an effort to keep her hands occupied, and maybe then he would not notice how much they trembled, "I know what I am. I know that you lied to me about why you brought me here in the first place; I know what Grindelwald wants me for. And I remember everything."

The flames leaped in the fireplace as the two wizards glanced at each other, sending umbrae on the decorated walls and unmoving portraits. The phoenix had returned to its cage in the far right corner, and its soft chirping was the only melody that filled the room as Albus pondered over his next words.

"I see," he mused, scratching his chin in thoughtfulness, "And I presume you have questions."

"I do."

"Go on, then," he prompted her, although the powerful sorcerer knew some questions were to be evaded.

"Why did you let me dig through my memories if the consequences were so catastrophic? Why gamble with my life as everyone else did when you were supposed to have my side?"

Albus leaned over his desk to glance at the broken girl, his finger trailing the glass of whiskey that he kept on his desk, and marine eyes spasmed as he took in her frantic state. She had lost hope, had forsaken their cause, and now there was no trust left in her.

"There is no such thing as gambling with your life," he muttered, "You see, we had been suspecting for a while now that your Obscurus had cracked through, and how fortunate we are that you are vigorous enough to keep it leashed for now. There have been concerns, though, and we have been trying to find ways of securing that leash without harming you."

"We?" asked Varya, suddenly confused by his words.

Dumbledore sighed deeply, ignoring her probing, then pulled out a document and handed it to the girl, "As you might be aware, Grindelwald has long ago formed a society to carry out his nefarious plans, and they have marked themselves under one symbol and called themselves the Alliance. Now, do you recognize this drawing?"

He pointed to a triangle drawn on one of the document's papers, a simple triangle with a circle and a line drawn inside. The girl shook her head, frowning at the design that seemed so familiar, yet she could not find meaning. Then, she gasped as she realized that she had seen it around Nurmengard Castle, "I saw it around his fortress when I was young, but I cannot remember what it stands for."

"Say, Varya...have you ever heard of the Deathly Hallows?"

"No, sir," the witch answered truthfully.

"The Deathly Hallows are a collection of wizarding objects said to have been made by Death itself, or at least that is how the Tales of Beedle The Bard would have it told," the Professor explained, then pulled out a paper and started drawing each part of the symbol, "The triangle is the Invisibility Cloak, the circle is the Stone of Resurrection, and the line is the Elder Wand."

"The Tale of The Three Brothers," the witch breathed, mesmerized by the idea that a story that she had read as a young child could have been, after all, reality.

"Indeed," answered Dumbledore, "Then, you must know that he who possesses all instruments will become the Master of Death, and so Grindelwald has been searching for them for years. He has managed to get one of them, the Elder Wand, yet the rest are scattered through the universe. Recently, he has been growing restless, and that is what has made us assume that your Obscurus had awakened. Gellert knows that he is running against a ticking clock, and that soon enough, it will strike midnight."

"He wants to preserve me by overcoming death itself," concluded Varya, then frowned, "But...surely there must be other ways. Such a task, of great proportions and consequences, could be easily accomplished through other means."

Albus raised an eyebrow, "Do you know other methods, Miss Petrov?"

She averted her eyes in panic, "No, sir. It was only an assumption."

The sorcerer nodded, although something in his eyes twinkled of suspicion, "Very well, then. To continue, Grindelwald has been making threats, and with each passing day, they grow stronger. I suspect that he might crack soon, and unless we surrender you over, he will strike against the school."

Varya rose to her feet, pushing the chair to the ground in a hurry as her locks ruffled in the breeze that started picking up, "I will not surrender to him," she croaked, "No, never again. Never again in his grasp."

"Of course, we do not expect you to do such a thing," Dumbledore calmed her down, then with a flick of the wrist, the chair was back up, and he forced Varya to sit down, "But, we do have a proposition for you— leave Hogwarts. Hide away with Newt Scamander, at least until we manage to ensure that Grindelwald is under control."

Varya looked at her fingers and noticed she was gripping the chair rather firmly, her digits having gone entirely white, and her nails dug into the material, scratching at it. Her whole body had tensed up with aversion, and she blinked away the liquid that polished her pupils over, then glanced up at the Professor.

"Hide?" her voice cracked, "Hide just as I have for all those years, while he slithers through cracks and sends his acolytes to haunt my nightmares? And of the creatures, what do I make of those? How do I hide from darkness itself when I am made of it?"

Her timbre had escalated, and she panted in fury at what the man implied— suggesting that she was to cower in fear yet again under the pretense of safety when her conscience knew well that there was no such thing in her life.

"I thought you would have a solution, that is why I came to you! I thought you were ready to fight against him and stop this madness. Yet, you are too scared to stand against Grindelwald, and instead wish to send me away as you have always done," Varya continued, her lips in a sneer of distaste and face rouge with wrath, "And how am I to survive meanwhile, I ask? You know, as well as I do, that this _parasite_ inside of me is eating me alive!"

"That _parasite_ ," Dumbledore said grimly, eyes downcasted as he chuckled bitterly before tilting his head to glance up at her, "Is all I have left of my sister, Ariana, and I do not know what to make of it. It belonged to her, you see, and it led to her demise."

"So you play with my life to preserve her darkness, knowing well that it is killing me slowly?" inquired Varya, flabbergasted by his forwardness. Then, she drove her hand down on the table and leaned forward, before raising one hand and conjuring a spiral of darkness in her hand— her Obscurus. Albus' eyes mystified, and his face blanched as he stared at the shadows, "This is not your sister, Professor. This is a monstrosity, darkness, shadows, everything she was not yet all that killed her."

"I am trying to save you both," he stated eventually, finally looking at the living girl in front of him, "Scamander can keep you safe from Grindelwald. As long as you are at Hogwarts, he will only keep terrorizing the school, but if you keep moving, if you keep running, that will give us time to figure a definite solution to this."

Varya felt her faith disintegrate at her feet, and no matter how much she struggled to piece everything together, it all fell like sand through her fingers as her clepsydra of vitality slowly ran out. Yet, there was one solution that she had, and there was one person that had tried to keep her alive regardless of what his true motives could have been.

The girl shook her head, then she stared at the middle-aged man with loathing in her eyes, "I am not leaving Hogwarts. I am not a coward like you."

She pivoted on her feet then ran out of the office, tears of selfishness cascading down her face as she patted them away with the sleeve of her sweater, and Varya felt at a loss of words. She knew that her presence was endangering many, yet Grindelwald had made no moves since she had killed Pichler and MacDuff. Perhaps, she was only pulling on her time, yet there was no real reason for her to leave except Dumbledore's paranoia and fear of confronting the Dark Wizard.

Steps echoed in the hallway as she marched the stone floors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As Varya Petrov walked the chandelier-lit corridors of the castle, her Obscurus slithered through the cracks of the walls, trailing behind her as it poisoned her from the inside out. Figures of history turned their heads from their portraits as she moved past them, wondering why a young girl appeared so utterly broken.

Her hair, spun by Erebus, the god of chaos himself, flew behind her in locks of midnight, and her watering eyes were a spiral of the void as fear settled in her chest cavity, making it move frantically. She let her eyes wander around, knowing well that the true atrocity of the world had already shown its fangs to her. Varya had learned that in her first year at Hogwarts when her soul had been broken by everyone she had put her trust in, and she had watched those she cared for suffer in strive for greatness. While at Hogwarts, nobody would ever be safe as long as the Eastern girl paraded around, her Obscurus lashing against those who betrayed her. The witch was older now, much more mature than she had been when she had left Scholomance, yet her fate seemed to be one endless loop of despair.

"As long as you are at Hogwarts, he will only keep terrorizing the school," Dumbledore had said, so familiar in his timbre, "But if you keep moving, if you keep running, that will give us time to figure a definite solution to this."

Hogwarts was anything but safe, the students would soon realize, and as the silence of the night fell upon the ancient walls, danger loomed over the horizon, and creatures transversed the land as they approached the wizarding school, always on the look for one Eastern witch that never entirely belonged.

And how amusing it was, that so long ago she had thought him to be her savior, the one who would finally end the misery in her life. Suppose she had known what was to come, if only the witch had had the slightest idea of the terror that would trail after her. Back then, regardless of her situation, she had lived in blissful ignorance. At the end of the day, the only person that would save her was herself.

Varya ran up the owlery stairs, her heart knowing exactly where she was headed, then immediately scattered the birds before reaching for the knocker to the Ravenclaw salon. The walls parted steadily, and the girl swung the door open before stepping inside the study, her breathing harsh as she faced Tom Riddle.

Tom stood at the table, curls ruffled and textbooks scattered in front of him, and his eyes snapped to her figure with wonder as soon as the witch had opened the entrance to the salon. His soul hammered as he took in her teary face, and he rose to his feet, then breathed deeply as her perfume invaded the room.

He had not talked to her in two weeks, and his mind had fogged over with an indescribable feeling he had never quite experienced, a sort of dull ache that only soothed now that she was in his proximity. Her presence was benevolent, it encompassed his being, and the wizard had not even realized how cold his surroundings had grown until Varya had come back to him.

"You seem upset," Riddle's voice was modulated, and it played the soft song of a harpe against her cochlea. She swallowed harshly before approaching him slowly, magnetically, almost as if he was the only constant in her life.

Why was it that Varya could barely avoid him? She was painfully aware of his constant manipulation, of his deception. Yet, if she closed her eyes and let herself imagine that his gestures came from a place of warmth, all troubles seemed to dissipate into nothingness.

"Tom," she said softly, and she had to clasp her hands behind her back to prevent herself from touching his soft skin. The nights that they had spent together had been playing on a loop since they had parted, and yet she could not bring herself to taste him again, not when it was so bittersweet, "You said you could save me. I do not want to die, please."

Her desperation burned him senseless, and he bit back a smirk of satisfaction at the way she pleaded for him. Naturally, the witch had come back to him, just as he had expected, yet things were very much different now.

One hand dove into his pocket, and he felt the rough texture of the parchment that he had received just that morning. How much things had changed, and now in his soul, there was a battle of two predominant forces— Tom's need for her to be by his side and his absolute wrath at what she had done.

A venomous sneer covered his face, and with a flick of his wrist, the door shut tightly behind her. Varya turned to face it in panic, and trepidation accumulated in her core like an avalanche as she stared back at the boy she loved and noticed his apathy.

"Tom?" her voice quivered as absolute vexation infused in Riddle's features, and he circled her slowly, like a vulture closing in on the naive rabbit that had come too close to its nest. He stopped behind her, then, with a soft hand, he trailed the nape of her neck. Varya flinched at his coldness.

Tom leaned over her shoulder, lips close to her ear as he whispered with venom, "You have made quite a mess of things, have you not, Petrov?".

She made to turn to him, but the boy only grabbed her shoulder and steadied her to face forward. Then, he slipped something into her hand, and the girl glanced at the piece of paper with confusion swimming in her scorpion irises. Her digits opened the folded parchment, and then horror set in her stomach.

_Dear Tom Riddle,_

_I am unsure why you and Rosier keep asking me about the locket, but if you so desire to know, my grandfather has told me that it went missing during the first week of Christmas break. The last people to be seen looking at it were a boy that looked, as per the shopkeeper's words, mischievous, and a girl with a strong accent. Please, do stop pestering me about this and tell your friend Rosier that he is a rotten egg for completely ignoring me._

_Best regards,_

_Naramir Borgin_

Riddle smirked at her completely mortified expression, then plucked the paper out of her hands and sauntered to the other side of the room, where he threw it in the fire, "Now, I assume that blameworthy look etched on your features is not because of Renold's uncourteous actions, but because you know, as well as I do, that you stole the necklace."

Varya blinked at him, unsure what to say, "I can explain—"

"And nothing would please me more than to hear your pathetic excuses and grappling, but save yourself the trouble of denying the obvious and tell me," He marched to her, then sized her arm in a tight grip, "Where is Salazar Slytherin's locket, Petrov?"

"I destroyed it," she half-lied through gritted teeth, trying to pull her arm away from the boy's stronghold, "Let me go, Riddle."

"Not quite yet," Tom said, and his tone grew more enraged with each word, almost as if he was bitting down on the sentence, "Surely, you do not believe me stupid enough to accept that answer? That locket is more powerful than you can imagine, and no spell can simply break it."

"What about an Obscurial, then?" the girl tried, and the flicker of doubt that crossed Tom's face was enough for her to continue, "Perhaps, my shadows broke it in pieces, unlike anything you have ever seen. Perhaps, it is long gone, and you should stop trying to look for it."

Tom's face turned an obscene color of scarlet. With a lithe move, he placed his wand underneath the girl's chin, murderous eyes scanning her face for any indication of deceit, yet the witch kept an apathetic stare, "You are playing a perilous game, Petrov."

"Am I?" the wand scratched at her throat, and yet she continued to stare at him with defiance.

"I do not want to harm you, darling. But I will gladly torture you until your voice is hoarse. Your ears will bleed from your own screams," his cynical tone susurrated, a cataclysm of indignation lacing his timber, "Now, why do you not sit down and tell me _exactly_ what happened to _my_ locket, lest I end up scratching that beautiful face of yours."

Varya sat down quietly, eyes darting to the door, yet she found it was too far for her ever to make it past the boy and safely outside. Regardless of their unspoken peace treaty, the witch knew Tom would not hesitate to hex her into oblivion if she tried to escape. So she looked up at the boy once more, then gave him a sardonic smirk.

"You will never see it again, Tom," she said sincerely, knowing she meant every word of it.

Riddle pursed his lips as he bit back the string of hexes he wanted to send her way, and his heart was encompassed by barbed wire as he gazed at the witch's face, eyes trailing her apricot lips and her high-risen cheeks, a portrait of suaveness and temptation. His hands tingled by his side, and Tom fought against touching her for the first time in weeks.

"Do you realize what you have done, you stupid girl?" he thundered, wand pressing against her neck harder, "It was not yours to take! It belonged to me, the heir of Salazar Slytherin, the rightful owner of the necklace. And you, a scrawny little witch, a thief, dared destroy it?"

Varya scoffed, then made to push his wand away, but the boy only grabbed her hand in a tight hold, keeping it from touching anything else of his. His skin roared to life where it connected to the girl's, and his mind fogged over as the rage almost subdued, but then he pushed harder against the wall that was forming around his wrath.

_What was this? Why could he not stay angry with her?_

"Too bad, Tom! Because it is gone, and no matter how much you scream at me, I will never give it to you—"

Her words cut short, and she gasped as she realized what she had just said.

"Give it back?" Tom inquired, the madness in his eyes burning lividly as his sneer deepened, "So you did not destroy it, then."

"I did," she lied, "All I meant was—"

"No," he growled, then turned around abruptly and clutched his chest, trying to control his heart as it beat erratically at her presence, "Do not fucking lie to me again, Varya."

"Or what?" she screamed right back, getting up from her chair and marching after him, "What are you going to do? Merlin's sake, Tom. Look at me!"

Her hand made to grab at him, but the wizard took a step backward, scrambling away from her as if she were holy water, and he a demon that had trespassed sacred ground, "Do not touch me!"

"Or what, then? Will you kill me, Tom?" her voice ricocheted off the walls, "Do it! I fucking dare you! I dare you to murder me right now, Riddle. Merlin knows everyone will praise you for it, right? Dumbledore will have one less thing to worry about; Della cannot look me in the eye regardless, and you..."

Her voice broke off as tears pooled into her eyes, and the boy dug his nails in his palms until they went numb to redirect the pain from his chest to his hands, and he tried to ignore the crime that pooled in his beings like a lagoon— a sea of troubles and worries Tom had no intention of addressing.

"You," she tried again, but her voice cut off as a sob rippled through her body, and Varya fell to her knees in a mess of tears and sniffles. She glanced up at the boy, whose expression was as stoical as ever, "You cannot even love me. If I die, will you even care?"

A question that had been keeping him awake at night as he tossed and turned in his bed. His mind screamed the answer at him, yet Tom muffled it with lies— to himself and to her.

"No."

Her vision had blurred from the drops that trailed down her rogue cheeks, and everything buzzed and shouted as absolute stupefaction invaded her body. Regardless of her intelligence, the girl could not seem to figure out through the boy's mountain of fallacies, and his words sounded through her being as everything inside annihilated itself. He did not care for her.

"Then, perhaps I should go," she said softly.

Alarm bubbled in his chest, and the boy blinked fastly, "Go? Go where?"

She raised her head to meet his stare, "Dumbledore told me to leave Hogwarts," as soon as the words left her mouth, the boy felt his mind break into pieces, "I said no, but now I realize I have nothing to stay here for."

"You cannot leave," Riddle stated sternly, eyes narrowed as his mind spun with fear of the girl leaving Hogwarts, leaving him. Yet, why could he not tolerate such thought?

Hopeful eyes gazed into his, "And why is that?"

Tom tried to make sense of his own thoughts, he tried to piece everything together, yet something screamed at him to harm her, to torture the information out of her. So he raised his wand again, and directed it at her chest, "You are not leaving this room until I have my necklace."

His childishness should have surprised her, yet all the girl could do was glower at the boy before she raised to her feet, body shaking with apprehension, "You are such a wicked person, Tom," Varya whispered with hatred, "I truly despise myself for ever loving you and for believing, even for a second, that you were redeemable."

"Do not dare insult me!" his voice was guttural as he ran a frustrated hand through sable locks, trying to calm his breath as it fell in heaps, and his mind spun, and his chest pumped, "Petrov, I will have your head for this."

"When will you understand that your quest will bring you nothing but pain?" her protest echoed in the room as she drew out her own wand, pointing at the boy with spite, "You will achieve nothing, Tom. You will lose everyone and yourself too."

"You have no idea what you are talking about, you—"

"But I do!" her frustration pooled at her feet, "You want to see, Tom? You want to see exactly what will happen to you once you make too many of your stupid Horcruxes?"

To Hell with everything, Varya thought. There was no point in hiding anything; there was no point in trying to protect and save a man that only cared for himself. And if Tom Riddle was destined to perish in darkness and loneliness, then so be it.

So she marched over and grabbed his hand, then her mind barriers came down for the first time in months, and she placed Tom's hand on her cheek as her eyes flashed white, and everything around them transfigured into the Dark Church. Before Tom could even process what was happening, he saw himself, or at least what part of him recognized at himself.

Terror spread through his being like a vine on an old house as he watched his being turn into a senseless monster, a creature that functioned on violence and nothing else. Then he saw himself die, and his mind flashed to the faithful day in the Rosier woods, when Varya had infused a nightmare into his being. It had been repeating itself on loop for months now, and whenever he allowed himself to dream, that is all he saw.

Except it was no longer a nightmare. It was his future— serpent face, red eyes, odious being.

Riddle gasped as he broke away from her, and they both scrambled backward, grasping at the furniture to hold themselves steady as queasiness spread through their bodies, and the boy trembled as he clutched the fireplace. Terrified eyes snapped to Varya, and the girl panted before gulping with dread.

"That," he heaved, pointing at his brain, "That is not true. I will not die. I will not fail. You have no idea what you are talking about."

"You will!" the Eastern girl cried out, "That is why the locket is gone, that is why the diary burned. I tried to stop you; I tried to help you—"

"No," Tom screamed, and then he flicked his wrist and sent her flying backward, her body hitting one of the walls, "No. The reason I fail is you— you messing with my plans since the beginning, betraying me at every step as if it were nothing. As is—"

He stopped in his tracks as his mind filled with suspicion. Her love, had that been a sham too? Was that Varya's way of manipulating him just as Riddle had done so many times? The boy grasped at his hair and yelled out in frustration, turning his back to the witch before he slammed his fist in one of the portraits, ripping the canvas right in the middle.

Tom gripped the frame as he leaned over and breathed harshly, and everything in him wrapped as his stomach flipped with the same tender feeling he had experienced after the dueling, some sort of fluttering he was not familiar with, yet attributed to the girl's presence.

She did not love him, then. Of course, how could she? He was a ghastly being, a python of catastrophic proportions that had burned the world to the ground. Moreover, he was a failure, a pitiful creature that had never achieved its purpose, and Varya had known that since the start.

_Varya did not love him. Varya did not love him. Varya did not love him._

He clutched his chest and winced as he felt the misery spread through everything. The wizard knew that it came from a place of sorrow. Although he might not have understood positive feelings, he knew the negative ones too well, and the anguish he was feeling was because of the witch's lies. Yet, why did Tom care if it had all been a fabrication?

"Tom?"

Her voice resonated through his body, and the boy parted his lips as dawn settled on his being, and as if a prophet had whispered words of absolute truth in his ears, Riddle's galaxy spun with an unequivocal sense of awareness.

_No, no, no, no._

Varya reached out to stroke his shoulder with apprehension, and then the boy blenched and shifted to face her, his face shimmering with perspiration. His eyes enlarged as they fell on her soft figure, the one that he had touched so many times. Repulsion, disgust, abhorrence— they all settled in his guts as he felt the warmth radiate through his core.

_Fuck, Tom cared for her._

"Do not touch me," he rasped as he pointed the wand at her with a shaky hand, and his throat constricted as he saw the fear flash in her eyes.

"What are you doing?" Varya whispered, noticing the way he gripped the wood in his hands, and knew that he only ever did so when he was about to battle.

"You lied to me," his loud voice boomed through the room. The wizard's hand flew to his head once again, and he pressed against his temples where pain throbbed under thin skin, and his breath was shaky as he tried to extinguish the disturbing feelings that had taken over his being.

"To protect you, to save you!" argued the girl, yet her voice quivered as he stepped closer, eyes mystified with lunaticism and wickedness, and his lips fell in a thin line as his mistrust and paranoia took over.

"Varya, for the love of fucking Merlin, stop lying to me!"

"I am not!" she cried out, "I love you; can you not understand that?"

"Lies!" his voice trembled, and his eyes spasmed around the room as he felt it closing in on himself. Tom had never been so unbalanced, had never felt so out of control. His future— it was gone in flames, and the uncertainty of it all he could only attribute to one person. Everything that was wrong with him— it all tied down to her.

_Kill her. Kill her. Kill her._

Varya threw frustrated hands in the air, then grabbed a book from the table and threw it against a wall in absolute madness and rage, her breath catching in her throat as she bit back another sob. Why did he not believe her?

"You are a liar, a deceiver. From the very beginning, you have been my downfall and have done nothing but undermine me. Love? Is this what you call love?" he screamed, "If you loved me, you would help me achieve everything I wanted, not destroy my plans."

"Do you not understand that your plans lead to your demise? Your bloody useless Horcruxes will drain you of everything that made you powerful— your intelligence, your charm, your power. They will all be gone if you pursue this madness."

_Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!_

Tom marched around the room, hesitant and unsettled for the first time in his life. No. There had to be a way to make everything work, some form of achieving all he had planned and still keeping his vigor. The girl was wrong; she could not know what she was talking about. All of this— it was only a plan to have him paranoid. Then, when he would step down due to her scheming, perhaps she would try to take everything over.

No, no, she would not. That was ridiculous, and the girl had no intention of ever harming him. Tom knew that Varya had been his only source of light in the darkness that he had nested himself in, and her power alone was enough for him to reach his goal.

Of course, she wanted it all for herself! Who would not? She was a liar, a manipulator, a deceiver, and Tom had to stop her now. If he did not do it, if he did not end her, it would all fall—his empire, his crown, they would be in the wrong hands.

_KILL HER! KILL HER! KILL HER!_

Tom turned to face her, and then everything stopped. Varya watched as he slipped into his sociopathic calmness, and an aura of grotesque and macabre surrounded his being as he advanced toward her— slowly, tentatively, slithering like a serpent through tall grass.

"Tom, what are you doing?" her voice trembled as onyx eyes gawked at him with fear, and the boy's chest fluttered with repugnant affection. Tom wanted to touch her skin, trail his lips along her neck as she whimpered his name in a saccharine note, feel her breath against his cheek as he felt her inside and outside.

_He raised his wand._

Varya fell to her knees before him, and her hands trembled as she tried to grasp the table behind her, and her ebony hair fell in her face as she cried in fear, and in sorrow, and in love.

_She said a prayer._

Tom dug his nails in his hand yet again, but this time there was no redirecting the pain; there was no numbness. All he felt was the way his soul seemed to break at the sight of her suffering, and he knew he could never allow her to do this to him. He could not be weak. He could not be mortal.

_He closed his eyes._

"I love you, Tom."

_She kept hers open._

"Avada Kedavra."


	54. chapter fifty-two

THE KILLING CURSE.

A spell as ancient as time, a curse that was considered, by most, unforgivable. Such crude magic had been born in the pits of Hell, where the Devil had used darkness unlike any other to give life to such a blasphemous charm.

When magic had first appeared with the formation of the universe, there had been no distinguishable line between good and bad— in Hell, only despair ruled, and everything else mattered less. Around the time of the Medieval Ages, Lucifer had grown tired of the way God proclaimed that magic belonged to healers and miracle makers, and he had set on a quest to prove that humans would abuse its power if given a chance.

Therefore, he sent out three scriptures— The Three Unforgivable Curses, one for each part of the Holy Trinity, in order to mock the Heavens that had banished him. That had been the first distinguishable difference between dark magic and good magic.

Even so, it was hard for wizards to perform such spells at first. The Unforgivable Curses, especially the Killing Curse, required a rotten soul, a need for vengeance and macabre that rivaled that of Hell, their birthplace. Because of that, only the Darkest Wizards were able to use them in duels.

It was not only a great skill that was required but also a deep understanding and intent. To take a life was no easy task, and using magic to do it was even more challenging. For people who felt no guilt, no remorse— it was to those that it came quickly—sociopaths that burned the world to the ground, the scum of life's cigar, the misfits.

And sometimes, being _evil_ was not enough. After all, there was a reason Elladora Selwyn used potions. There was a reason Nicholas Avery used daggers. There was a reason Icarus Lestrange used tricks and schemes.

Now, Tom Riddle— he was purely catastrophic, he was Lucifer's son in all ways, with such deviousness that even the demons that roamed the Earth murmured his name in terror. He had the intent; he had the power; he had a lack of remorse.

Or, perhaps, _he had had them once upon a time._

"Avada Kedavra!"

Tom's heart pumped as his body quivered, and the curse fell between his lips as it had never before. His eyes, closed, awaited the flash of virescent light that he knew too well to glide over his eyelids, for the rushing sound to fall upon his ears, and his hands clutched the wood of his wand firmer.

Varya's cry filled the room, and then everything was silent.

For a second, he dared not open his eyes, and instead, he imagined a world where he had just murdered Varya Petrov, arguably the most powerful witch that he had ever met. He had expected a feeling of proudness, of achievement, yet this fictive place his mind had conjured was not that— it was cold, empty, sullen. Things he should have relished, yet found to not be of his taste any longer.

His books had taught him of this one experiment that had always fascinated him— Schrodinger's cat. Almost ten years ago, a muggle Austrian-Irish physicist had designed a trial that would present a paradox of life and death, and in turn, explained the need, or lack, of observation in reality. He had placed a cat in a box with a decaying radioactive substance and a mechanism that would kill the cat upon completion of the decay. Until an observer opened the box and checked, the cat would be both alive and dead.

And until Tom Riddle opened his eyes, Varya Petrov was both alive and dead. That specific moment of paradox allowed the boy to weigh out the options and understand which one he preferred.

The tumultuous feeling in his chest was unequivocal— a terror of losing the only person that had ever cared for him, an endless loop of his mother's death, and it wrecked him to his core. His lungs constricted as he braced himself for the reality of a world without Varya, and regardless of his affinity for the subtleness of the macabre, he found it to be uninviting and barren.

He wanted to take the spell back.

"Tom," a weak voice whispered from a distance, and reality collapsed in on itself.

His sable eyelashes fluttered open, and when he met Tasmanian black, with just the faintest hint of golden dust, Tom Riddle fell to his knees in utter disbelief. Varya Petrov was still alive and well.

His curse, one that he had used numerous times in previous years, no longer worked. The darkness that it required was no longer present in Tom Riddle, at least not in the grand proportions it had once been. His monstrous nature had been subdued by a factor he had never taken into consideration.

It disgusted him beyond wits, and he grasped his shirt as the boy's face scrunched in misery. His thoughts surged with fanatic rage, and he wanted to destroy everything that stood beyond him and Heavens, then rip the wings off of every angel that had considered the girl to be a blessing to him.

Fucking Varya Petrov, always messing things up for him. And now, she had welcomed his downfall into his life.

Varya sobbed on the floor, the utter terror that coursed through her bloodstream making her breathing come in brutally, and she fought to inhale as her throat cramped in fright. Tom had tried to kill her. He had wanted to end her, and for some reason unknown to her, it had failed.

The wizard, however, knew very well why it had not worked. Riddle glanced at the girl in front of him, and he struggled to piece his mind back together, to look inside for the hatred he had once felt, yet it all bloomed in vivid colors and delicate patterns. He had hated her laughter, her scent, her everything.

Now, he could no longer bring himself to do so, and Tom did not want her dead, either. He was a man of apocalyptic connotations, and his fate had long ago been sealed as a future emperor of destruction, a demigod that gripped Death by its neck and laughed in its face— _Lord Voldemort, he who flyes away from death_.

Lord Voldemort had been less of a man and more of a beast, a person who had been corrupted by the coldness of the world, and it had all started in the early days of his existence, when he had been abandoned to the harsh streets of London. He was a being of circumstances, and as fate would have it, each action that he had made had led to his rise as the Darkest Wizard of all time. He was a brute, an utter maniac that felt no empathy nor remorse and had never done so.

But that was not Tom Riddle. At least, not as long as Varya would be in his life.

And that disgusted him so much. He loathed the way his chest collapsed in on itself as he glanced at her; he despised the way his hand wanted to reach out to her face and grasp her chin until Varya's lips met his.

The wizard was on the verge of falling into insanity as the thought of failure kept invading his mind, and he wanted to shout profane words and everything above and below. How dare they? How dare they send her to him and change his fate?

He wished nothing more than to bring back that murderous rage that had almost had him slit her throat so many times, and the boy wanted to lie to himself and say that her death would mean nothing to him.

But it would, it would mean so much that he thought it might make his fight no longer worth striving for. His epidermis covered in goosebumps of absolute disgust. So repulsive, so weak, so faulty. Stupid fucking tenderness and an idiotic witch that had ruined everything.

Tom had felt the remorse of almost murdering the one person he had grown to care for, his heart had hurt at the idea of no longer holding her, and as much as he tried to deny that reality of it, in the end, the boy had cracked the door open to his soul— Lord Voldemort no longer existed in the same dimension as his affection towards Varya.

"You absolute monster," the Eastern witch screamed as she scrambled on the floor, her face wet with the flood of tears that fell down her cheeks. Her back hit the wall, and she clutched the necklace as her Obscurus pulsated on her skin.

Tom's eyes enlarged as he saw her shadows dance on the walls, and he hurried to his feet, unsure what to say or do as the girl screamed painfully on the other side of the room. No, no, this could not be happening. A stupid girl could not have diminished his powers.

He picked his wand back up and tried pointing it at her, tried muttering the spell again, yet he found that he could not even cast it. Not as long as the boy looked in Varya's eyes, where betrayal overflowed like the Danube River into the Black Sea.

"Fucking Hell," Tom spluttered, and then he turned around to hide the astonishment on his face, the weakness. Could the girl tell, then? Was she aware that Tom cared for her? If so, perhaps, she would start exploiting it.

No. Tom could never show weakness. He could never succumb to such faults as affection.

"Look at me, you bloody bastard!"

He felt something hit his head, and he turned around to glance at the book that Varya had just thrown at him, then at her. Riddle tried to find words to say, but "sorry" was too vulnerable, and perhaps not enough, yet anything else would be meaningless to the girl.

The wrath that the girl felt at his betrayal was astonishing, and it mixed in with the agony of a broken heart, and that was all it took for her to move across the room and knee the boy in the stomach before pushing him in one of the chairs at the table. She gripped his hair and pulled his head back, and then, through a vision clouded by Poseidon's waves, Varya placed her silver dagger to his neck and pressed harshly.

"I hate you," she lied through gritted teeth, "I hate everything you are. I hate your superfluous arrogance, the way you walk inside a room as if you already knew your intelligence shone above the rest before even knowing the attendees. I hate the way you betray and manipulate me as if I am worth less than most."

Tom had never experienced his heart breaking, but he supposed this is what it felt like— being abandoned to nighttime darkness when the only star he ever saw finally stopped shinning. As macabre as it sounded, Riddle fell into that feeling, much preferring it over the fluttering in his cavity, as it was familiar. He knew what disappointment was, he knew what pain was, but the nuance of affection? That he would never understand.

And losing her would be shattering— his being was too obsessive to function if she ever left entirely, yet it was the exact poison he needed to combat her cure. It was such a paradox of situations, where he wanted nothing more than to kiss her face raw, hear her breath his name unlike anyone else ever will, yet also push her away until he broke his mind and returned to darkness.

"But I hate myself more," her brittle voice cracked, and she looked so fragile at that moment, nothing like the witch that had destroyed an Albanian fortress out of anger, "Because how stupid must I have been to fall for someone like you? A disgusting python that will choke on its own venom, a vermiling that refuses to open his heart to anyone. I knew what I was signing up for, one would say, and to that, I must agree. Regardless, I do not deserve this, Tom."

The repugnance that pooled into his being as his body reacted to her words almost choked him, and Riddle tried his best to fight against the natural want of _her_ and _everything that made her_. The realization of his feelings had been like a shower of cold water, and he discerned that it had taken roots months ago.

His mind, fuzzed over by something that repulsed him, tried to conjure moments that had made him feel like this, and he wondered if a memory altering charm might help him forget about such tenderness. Yet, his affection, just like hers, had never had a start nor a finish; it only existed in his realm of being.

Once, he had thought her to be a star of possibility against a sky of realism, and she was a drop of venom in his cup that he unknowingly drank with each touch, each exchanged gaze, each trail of lips on heated skin. She tasted sweet, and he was sour, yet when they infused each other, it became the soft tinge of citric.

He had been foolish not to realize the signs— the way he had started eating oranges more after drowning in her citric scent, the way apologies seemed easier when they were addressed to her, or how his go-to weapon had become a dagger ( _her dagger_ ) whenever magic was not acceptable. And, perhaps, all he had done— the scheming, manipulation, the deceit— was because Tom never thought she would stay if he did not play her like a harpe.

 _Forgetting Varya_ , he scoffed mentally; that _would never be a possibility_.

She was his ideal, a woman that was ruthless and macabre, yet still carried the faintest breeze of summer in her sable locks, and the golden dust of twilight in scorpion eyes, a mixture of demonic and angelic that made her easy to underestimate, yet deadly. Varya was made of shadows and despair, and the swirl of sagaciousness and astute brightness that made her invincible.

But Tom did not want this; he did not wish to carry any tenderness towards her, not when his future was blank, not when his cause would fail. No, Tom Riddle had to put his mission above else, and as long as Varya would be around to temper him, he would never become the iron-fisted leader the wizarding world needed.

"Please, please, just say something," the girl begged, stupefied by his absolute silence, his blank stare. Had he no remorse for trying to kill her out of spite? How pathetic she was— trying to grapple at a man that had no use for her in his world.

When Tom continued to stay silent, Varya's sobs grew louder, and she pulled the knife away from his throat and twisted it in the air before gripping its handle harshly. She bit the inside of her cheek painfully and tried to suppress the burning dark mist that had begun pooling at her feet, trying to go for the boy that had been the cause of her fear and anguish. The witch continued to stare at the boy, waiting for him to say something—anything—yet, his silence was the wickedest torture, and it showed no sign of remorse. He did not care.

Then, with a swift move, Varya brought her knife down on one of his hands, the one he always held his wand with, and stabbed it fiercely, earning a hiss of pain from the broken boy that bit down on his lip to keep from screaming.

"What in Merlin's name?" Tom growled and tried to grab the knife out of his bleeding hand, yet his temples pounded, and he found himself unable to move. Frantic eyes glanced at the girl, whose lips were moving in a susurration motion, and he could tell by her mystified eyes that she was placing a curse on him, "Varya— Varya, stop it right now!"

The girl pulled her lips in a sneer, and she watched with delight as the boy bled from every single opening of his face—eyes, nose, lips, ears, "Choke on your own venom, you serpent," she spat, then twisted around to leave the room, her soul a little colder, a little darker.

"Wait," he screamed after her, trashing against the lock the witch had placed him in, "Varya, do not dare leave me here!"

"Or what?" the girl smirked, "You will try killing me again? Have fun with that, Riddle. Come at me with everything you have, but consider this a warning— this is the last time you cross me and live to tell the tale."

And with that, she sauntered out of the room, leaving Riddle to choke on his own blood until he passed out. Then, her curse would wake him up, torture him to stay awake until he could no longer take it, and he would fall back into unconsciousness. And nothing would stop the cycle except someone finding him there, which at this time of day was unlikely. Until then, Riddle would have to face everything he hated most in the world— his blood, proof of his heritage, and mortality.

***

Her clothes were rumpled, and she struggled to take them off in the Slytherin dorm, throwing them on her bed with a disgusted face. Varya's mind was in shambles, and a nauseating feeling overtook every time she thought of the numbness, the fear that she had felt when Tom had uttered his curse.

How could he do this to her? Regardless of how little he cared, he had been ready to discard her at the slightest chance of turmoil, and over what? A necklace? It was unpardonable, it was downright horrifying, and the girl found herself seizing the pendant of the skull and the snake with uncertainty, ready to throw it as far away as possible.

She should have ripped it from her throat, even let it burn in the fire, and yet it was the only gesture of kindness the boy had ever shown to her. How insidious love was— so encompassing that even in hopelessness, one sought out to numb anguish by believing their significant other had once had some redeemable qualities. But Tom Riddle was made of Hell Fire and basilisk poison; nothing could ever brighten up the void; it only inundated everything that touched it.

The door swung open, and in stepped Elladora Selwyn, a tornado of verve and vitality, and Varya could not help but envy her. How was she so collected, so utterly sane, when Icarus had loved everyone but her? Undoubtedly, the boy had not tried to kill the Selwyn heir, yet was it not even more painful to watch your loved one cherish others?

When the vermilion haired girl saw her roommate resemble a wrecked ship in the Dead Sea, she pursed her lips in discontent, and her astute mind immediately flew to a boy of heinous tendencies. She marched over to Varya, then took one hand between hers, and immediately felt the pain radiate off of her skin. Heartbreak was a nasty, nasty thing.

"What did he do?" she asked, the note of her voice aggressive, and Elladora could tell from the way Varya's eyes darted to the ceiling that she was fighting back more tears. Of course, nobody enjoyed showing weakness.

The Eastern witch stayed silent, uncertain on whether she should let it spill. Selwyn had never been loyal. She was her own battalion, and her alliances swayed in the wind like a flag of blood-red deceit. Yet, it had been her that had told her to pursue Tom, and in the department of heartbreak and unrequited love, Elladora Selwyn had the master key to every door.

"He tried to use the Killing Curse on me," breathed the witch eventually. Damned be everything, what else could they do to her?

Elladora's eyes widened in surprise. She had not expected that. "Then, how are you alive?"

"I—," her words caught in her throat as Selwyn dragged her to the bed, then sat her down on the margin and grabbed her potions bag from the trunk, "I have no clue. He said the words, loud and clear, yet there was no flash of green, there was no sound. But there was this...coldness. Almost as if it were a veil of something so dark—and I know darkness. I know it well. But not like that, never like that."

Elladora stopped in her tracks, and her hands trembled over the edge of the trunk. _Holy crap_. Was this what she thought it was? She had heard of killing curses being countered by many things, such as sacrificial love or blood pacts, but this was something else entirely. Neither of them had died. No. The price had been something else entirely.

"Cold?" she croaked, then covered it with a cough, "Cold as in...as in freezing, or?"

"Numbness, almost," explained the other girl as she pulled at her sweater sleeves, "And then this suffocating feeling of hollowness as if every emotion in my body had been drained into the void. It is still here; I can sense it—something so terribly devastating and wretched."

"What do you believe it to be?" inquired Elladora, testing the waters.

"Is it not just my disappointment with Tom? I never thought him to be so cruel. Foolish, I know, but—"

"Varya," Elladora interrupted, and then, with tentative steps, she approached the girl before kneeling in front of the bed. She grabbed her hands and squeezed them tightly, unsure of whether she should tell the girl the truth. It would be better to go to Tom, to alert him of what had happened, yet the boy would surely deny everything. He would not admit to such a thing.

"Yes?" the Eastern witch asked.

"When you went to Riddle, what was it that you were feeling?"

"Desperate," Petrov answered immediately, "I had just had a conversation with— with someone. And I realized Tom was the only person that could help me with my situation, so I was desperate for him to tell me how to survive. But he knew about the locket, and he got so terribly furious and told me I had been lying to him. Then, well, you know what happened."

"And he failed."

"Yes, he could not kill me. Why is that?"

 _Because he loves you, that damned fool_ , Elladora thought silently. _A wizard cannot kill his lover with the Killing Curse, not unless he undividedly means it._

But that was not her place to say, so she stayed tight-lipped, and instead explained it in another way, "To kill someone, you have to mean it entirely. You have to completely believe that your target no longer deserves to live, that their time on this Earth has ended. But that is not what is important right now. There is something else that concerns me."

"Tom did not mean to kill me?" Varya breathed, and her eyelashes fluttered in dismay, her heart beating louder. "I mean, of course, he thinks I am some almighty weapon. Idiotic boy."

Selwyn fought back the need to roll her eyes at her obliviousness, then her eyes fell on the necklace around the girl's neck, "May I see that?".

Perplexed, Varya unclasped the collier fastly, then handed it over to the dexterous witch. She immediately held it up in the green light of the room, turning it around eagerly and analyzing it from all points of view. Then, she grabbed some poison from her bag and popped open the bottle with the flick of a finger. She raised the bottle in the air, then let a few droplets fall on the pendant. It sizzled, yet it stayed intact.

"Fascinating," Elladora gasped, and her eyes twinkled almost as if enchanted. She placed it in her palm, then trailed the edges with caution.

Varya raised an eyebrow, "What is?". Elladora threw the bottle at her, then she caught it clumsily, almost spilling its toxic contents all over her lap, "Bloody hell."

"That is one of the most erosive potions known to the wizarding world. It melts away everything, and it can only be stored in the glass made from a dragon's breath of fire," she gave the pendant back, helping Varya tie it to the back of her neck, "As you might assume, your pendant is made of cheap metal, and it should have disintegrated in seconds."

"So why did it not?" asked Varya, still not understanding what the witch was getting at.

Elladora smirked with wickedness; then, her lips parted to let out words that Varya would never forget, "Because that, my dear, is your Horcrux."

Varya anthracite eyes spasmed with ambivalence, and a storm wreaked havoc against the lifeless pupils that stared at Selwyn with astonishment. Her breathing had halted completely, and a suffocating sensation of intricate complexity invaded her lungs— delight and sorrow mixed together in a cocktail of vagueness that left her light-headed. Her lips of carnation pink parted to let out the smallest gasp, and thorns squeezed against the girl's heart as it seemed to drum against her ribcage.

"But," her cynical voice was strangled, "How? I never knew the spell, and I never..."

Petrov's voice trailed off as she clutched the pendant, and her eyes fell on the symbol with wonder. Perhaps, she should have felt repulsed at the idea of a piece of her soul breaking off, yet there was some admiration in her that mortified the girl.

"You went there with the intention of surviving no matter what, and a part of you had already accepted the idea regardless of how frightening it was," explained the experienced witch, "I have heard Riddle talk of it for months, and I know that there is an incantation that one usually says, but magic is not stagnant. It pulses through your being in its dormant form, and sometimes it protects you in desperate moments."

"So," the witch tried to understand, "I thought Tom was going to kill me, and my magic tried to save me by creating a Horcrux and attaching itself to my necklace?"

"Yes, exactly. That pendant, I assume it was given to you by Riddle, and that made it meaningful to you. The soul has to latch on to valuable things, almost like a survival tactic, because they are harder to destroy or lose. You did not know that he would not be able to kill you, so you assumed that it would be your end."

"Then, why does this not happen to everyone?" asked Varya, still unsure.

"Most people do not know of Horcruxes, so their magic is not aware of it, per se. Besides, not all wizards are powerful enough to perform such spells, especially subconsciously, but with your Obscurus and birth-given power, I assume you are one of the few."

"Bloody hell."

"That is one way to react," snorted Elladora, and then she took out some calming droughts from her collection and handed them to the girl, who was still visibly shaken by everything. She handed them over to the foreigner, then marched to her trunk and started rearranging it.

"I am immortal," gasped Varya, and her shoulders fell in complete astonishment, "He tried to kill me, and he made me immortal."

"Riddle has a way of getting the things that he wants— natural talent," Elladora's cheery nose scrunched in displeasure, "For someone so malicious, the universe sure did bless him with incredible luck and talent, did it not?"

Varya could not help but agree, and as she clutched onto her pendant, some sort of uncertainty settled over her. It seemed that one of her biggest problems, her perishing at the hands of the parasite, had been blown to bits by Tom. Yet, some part of her resented that. Immortality was terrifying— it was an eternal pain of watching everyone you loved die. The Knights, unless they all somehow managed to make their own trinkets, would all die as she watched. Felix, Ivy, and Della— they would die too. Everyone would, everyone except her. And, with the new information Riddle had found about his future, who knew if he would still pursue this path?

She trailed the symbol, scrapping at the engraved edges, and then smiled, "Little death eater."

Elladora turned to face her, "What?"

"The snake is eating the skull," Varya mused with affection, "And now it is a Horcrux, so it quite literally is the mark of a Death Eater."

Her roommate snorted, "Riddle would surely share your fascination with that, but unfortunately, immortality is not something I would ever consider," her eyes traveled to her friend, "Good for you, though."

Varya's heart shriveled at the mention of Tom, and she cleared her throat before standing up from the bed and heading to the door, needing some time alone to clear her head. Elladora nodded her way in acknowledgment, then pulled out a set of books on herbology and threw herself on the bed.

The Eastern witch walked into the Common Room, where quietness had fallen over, as most students were in the library. The castle buzzed with the sounds of the night, and there was something oddly sinister yet calming in the air.

She walked the hallways with a newfound hum in her step, and her body vibrated with ultimate strength as she felt utterly unstoppable. As disgusting as it should have been—using murder to achieve immortality— there was also some security in it that the girl had never felt. Varya was safer than she had ever been, and not even Grindelwald's wrath would touch her as long as her Horcrux was kept a secret.

At that moment, part of her finally understood Tom's obsession with death— he had grown up almost as she had, and had watched the people who had been supposed to care for him succumb to such weakness. And this blanket of security was the only way to stomp out the coldness they had faced.

As soon as she turned the corner towards the staircases on the fifth floor, Varya spotted a rush of blonde curls ruffle past her, and she turned to see Ivy Trouche hurrying to the steps, probably coming from the Ravenclaw Common Room. The witch bit her lip in uncertainty; then she turned to face her roommate, who had stopped to glare at her.

"Ivy," she started, unsure, "Why do you hate me so much?"

Trouche shifted from one foot to another; then, her eyes flickered to Varya's swollen eyes. She had been crying, it was painfully obvious, and the blonde's heart twisted painfully at the idea, then her gaze softened, "I do not hate you, Varya. I just hate what you are becoming when you are around those Slytherin arses."

"You do not know them," Varya tried to defend them weakly.

"Are you so sure?" inquired Ivy, hand gripping the balustrade, "I grew up with them, Petrov. You seem to forget that I have seen them in every possible corner of my life. And look, I will admit that some of them are not completely wicked— Nott, Rosier, maybe even Lestrange on a good day, I could see why you would be inclined to believe they are good people. But, listen to me, as long as they take whatever order Riddle barks at them without even questioning it, they will stay dark and twisted."

Varya could not look her in the eyes and disagree, knowing very well that it would be a laughable lie, and as much as Ivy could be coldhearted, she knew her too well, "I just do not want this to get between us. I value you and Della, and I know my actions might have hurt you, but—"

"I am not asking you to choose," stated Ivy immediately, "For some horrible reason, you have decided to love Riddle. But please, Varya, wake up. See them for who they are, and stop putting your trust in them, because you will end up hurt."

They had already shredded her soul to ribbons, Varya discerned, and yet she felt that she only ever truly belonged with the Knights, as she was just as malicious as them. After all, she had made a Horcrux instead of accepting death, had she not?

"Where are you going?" asked Varya suddenly, trying to avoid the topic. Ivy's lips fell downwards, and she sighed before accepting that the girl would need time to see what was right in front of her.

"I was trying to find Della before dinner," she mumbled, then took out a pocket watch from her robe and frowned, "We were supposed to meet half an hour ago, but I cannot find her in the Ravenclaw Common Room. Odd, am I right? She is always so punctual."

Varya glanced towards the entrance to the other House's dormitories, "Is Felix in there? I must talk to him."

Ivy shook her head and frowned, "No, he is not. I thought he might be patrolling, but I saw the Head Girl in the library when I checked for Della," she took a step down the stairs, "Regardless, I will keep looking for her and— hey, listen. We will talk more about this at dinner, yes? I do care for you, and I hate seeing you suffer because of that pompous dickhead."

Varya nodded and gave her a small smile, then the blonde jumped down the steps eagerly, trying to look for their friend. The Eastern witch frowned, and her eyes darted to the corners, where shadows had started swirling and twisting at the trepidation that had settled in her stomach. Where had Della and Felix gone, and why did something feel so unnerving about their disappearance?

***

Tom Riddle had never quite been so livid with another, and yet Varya Petrov had managed to twist every nerve in his body with absolute wrath. He had stood in the Ravenclaw Salon for almost two hours, his mind fogged due to the loss of blood, and it had all made him feel a puddle of weakness and despair. The witch was smart— the curse she had placed was not one meant to kill, but rather torture. He bled enough to pass out, and then when he would wake up, his blood would flow from the ground and back into his system. Then, the cycle would repeat itself, until his body had lost all sources of vitality.

Abraxas Malfoy had entered the room at some point, and had cussed out against the skies before scrambling to help Riddle off of the chair and into their shared room, ignoring the trail of sanguine that slithered like a serpent behind his leader. After a few minutes of panic, he had managed to find a book about Eastern curses in Tom's trunk and had flipped the pages until he could find some sort of solution.

It had taken some time for the Slytherin prefect to regenerate, and when he could feel his fingers and toes again, he had thrown the duvet in his bed to the side, then grabbed his wand from the desk and stormed past Abraxas with no words.

Malfoy was not sure what his Lord had in mind, but he could tell it was not of sane quality, and when Tom came back almost an hour later, he had a sadistic grin on his face, something so strangely macabre that it chilled his follower to the bone.

"Where have you been?" asked Abraxas, hand pulling at his platinum roots with discomfort. He was the one that had always seen Tom in his demented moments, when something in him snapped with vicious cruelty, so fatalistic he could burn the moon in the sky and cover the world in the darkness of eternal night.

The heir of one of the most sacred wizarding families had been the one to pick up the remains after one of Riddle's moments of uncharacteristic lack of control, when he had broken too many bones, had tortured too many people. Malfoy had mastered illusion charms, cleaning spells, and, of course, the pinnacle of all deceit— the Obliviate charm.

"Places," the Lord's voice was guttural, and then he took off his tie and placed it on their desk, knowing that he had to change his shirt, lest he smelled of blood and death— his own or another's.

Tom unbuttoned his shirt, then threw it to their pile of clothes, and grabbed a sweater that he had not worn in a while. As soon as he put it on, though, his soul twisted, and he recognized it to be the one Varya had worn in Albania after they had spent their first night together.

His Adam's apple went up and down, and the boy blinked at the fragrance that enveloped him and reminded him of what had come to be of his soul. Even so, he pulled it all the way down, then let her scent invade him.

"Cryptic," declared Malfoy, then he threw on a shirt as they dressed out of their uniforms and into something more casual for dinner.

Then, his eyes snapped to his leader's shoes, where a patch of murky blood glowed effervescently. And how odd it was, as Abraxas remembered cleaning the blood off Riddle when they had arrived in the room.

"You will find out soon enough," sneered Tom, and then his lips pulled in a menacing smile, "What was that name of the mudblood that had been pestering you for weeks?"

"Della Beauchamp?" asked Malfoy, unsure of what to say of the girl. She had been pronounced in her interests, a mess of giggles and blushes, and regardless of his crude behavior, the girl would not get the message that he was not interested.

Tom gestured widely with his hand, "Yes, that one. She was running around the gardens like a headless chicken. I followed her, but then—"

The door to their room opened, and in walked Lestrange with a groan before he threw himself on the bed, head pounding for the countless of hours he had spent in the library, engulfing information that he barely had any interest in. Tom's words got stuck in his mouth, and he glared at his follower for his loud movements.

"Are you joining us for dinner?" asked Malfoy in a heavy accent, and Icarus threw his hands in the air before letting them fall by his sides.

"I am too tired," he mumbled, but Tom immediately cast a charm that had him right up on his feet.

"We will all be attending dinner," he ordered in a daunting call, loud and imperial. Then his eyes twinkled at the flash of fear that flickered in Lestrange's irises, "Lest you end up incriminating yourself by your absence."

"Incriminating?" Abraxas queried, eyebrows furrowing at Riddle's words, and all boys exchanged a glance of secrecy— Tom knew something, and regardless of what was to happen at dinner, they were to keep their lips sealed and put on their best astonished faces.

Riddle said nothing. He only marched towards the door, before turning to his followers and inviting them to walk with him. He made his way to the room that Nott, Avery, and Rosier shared, and opened it without hesitation. The three rascals snapped their eyes to their leader, and then, by the severity of his gaze, immediately understood something had happened.

Jumping to their feet, they proceeded to follow Tom into the Common Room, where Elladora Selwyn was waiting for them patiently, legs crossed, and lethargic eyes glancing at them with irritation.

"You are late," she announced, and Tom gave her a smirk. He stopped when her eyes carried some awareness he was not familiar with, and a hoisted eyebrow from the girl made him understand that Selwyn knew something. Riddle blinked at her monotonically, and then Elladora made a gesture that suggested they would talk later.

The seven of them marched down the hallways, each imperial in their own nature, and students parted as they made way for the uncharacteristic appearance. The Knights were rarely seen together in all of their glory, preferring to trek around in lesser numbers. It was easier to carry out their surreptitious affairs in such instances.

Now, however, they were standing out in the open, and that itself was a statement of time— they needed an alibi, and whatever Tom had done, they had to make sure nobody suspected their location. How absolutely nerve-wracking it was, the fact that they all followed him without as much as a whisper of doubt, and that was a monument of faith and devotion.

As soon as they stepped into the Great Hall, they knew the news had already spread amongst the teachers, and Tom smirked as he saw them trying to have the students sit at their tables and wait until all of their peers had gathered.

The moment Tom caught sight of a breeze of raven locks and translucent skin, his heart sped up with anticipation and repulsive affection, and he walked faster to the end of the table before sitting down between Nott and Avery. He watched Varya Petrov parade into the Hall, frowning at the tension in the air, and then their eyes met, and her face blanched at his fiendish smirk.

Varya felt suffocated under his stare, and she hated the way her skin buzzed with awareness as his eyes trailed her up and down, before his mouth settled in a smirk that made her blood go cold. There was a spark in them, an emotion that screamed of superiority, almost as if he knew something she did not.

Someone grabbed her arm, and Varya turned around to face Felix's troubled eyes, "What—"

"Varya, you need to sit down," he managed to stutter our, and then he dragged her away from the Slytherin table, and to the Ravenclaw one, his steps fast and his grip firm, "They alerted me first as Head Boy, of course, but you— oh my god, I cannot believe this."

Panic settled in her stomach as she watched Felix tear up, and Varya's words tumbled out in stutters, "Felix, what happened?".

His gaze drifted to something behind her, and Varya turned and followed it, only to be directed yet again towards Riddle. _No, no, no, what had he done?_

The Headmaster rose from his seat, and with a wave of his hand, he silenced the buzzing crowd. Varya sat down next to Felix, and her eyes stayed on Armando Dippet as his sorrowful gaze trailed the students. Then, he sighed, and glanced down in shame.

"Today, we have gathered you all here to bring some terrible news. With my greatest misery, I must announce the death of one of our beloved prefects," his voice carried out throughout the room, and Varya's being went numb as her eyes danced across the room, trying to look for her friends. Where was Ivy? Where was Della?

She turned to Felix, her mind broken and her eyes moist, "Felix, no. No— do not tell me—"

The boy only turned away, and Varya bit back the sob that rattled her body, and her hands flew around her abdomen as she desperately clung to her own clothes, mind too fogged to process the Headmaster's words. It was a cascade of torment, and her lips turned blue as she stopped breathing. Yet, she could not die. But those she cared for? They could, and they would.

Her black eyes darted to Riddle, who was now staring at her with a devilish smile on his face, and she just knew. She knew that he was taking pleasure in watching her break. Tom savored it effortlessly, and he could almost feel the saltiness of her tears on his buds; and he licked his lips with absolute proudness before leaning in on the table, his gaze focused and determined.

He wanted to watch, he wanted to see her crumble at the news, and Tom would enjoy seeing such a beautiful thing he adored be destroyed by something she could not control. His heart beat as he took in her disheveled appearance, and the boy let himself be intoxicated with the way her shoulders shook. Because, goddamn it, he would give anything to make her leave.

Her absence would be the only way Tom could ever regain his darkness, and as much as every atom in his body called for her, Varya Petrov had to leave Hogwarts. And this? This would drive her out of the castle with her bags packed right behind, and regardless of whether he was guilty or not, the girl would believe he had been the one to commit the act.

The Eastern witch's eyes darted back to the Headmaster, who had taken off his hat in respect, "A deceased person was found by the bottom of the Astronomy Tower, and after careful inspections, we have realized who it belonged to."

And that is when Varya saw her— standing by the end of the Ravenclaw table with a horrified look on her face was pure-hearted Della Beauchamp, and her face covered in tears as everyone realized who had died.

"With our deepest condolences, we must announce that we have found Ivy Trouche's body."

Then, the lights flickered before the chandeliers exploded. And the Great Hall fell into darkness as Varya Petrov's scream transversed the night.


	55. chapter fifty-three

THE GREAT HALL had fallen into obscurity, the chandeliers shattering to bits, and the candles wavering into nothingness as Varya Petrov's Obscurus unleashed its violence on everything that surrounded her.

The Ravenclaw table blasted to bits, and the students surrounding it screamed bloody murder as they tried to scramble away in absolute darkness, unsure of what had started the attack.

Felix had stood closest to Varya, and had managed to protect himself by jumping to the side as soon as her scream had filled the room, casting a shield around the students that had had the unfortunate luck of sitting at the Ravenclaw table.

In the darkness, few people managed to see Varya's non-corporeal form. As soon as the shift had happened, the Obscurus had flown through one of the windows and outside into the courtyard, dancing amongst the darkness of night, seeking out a way to bring chaos into the castle and eradicate it.

That is all it took for Tom to get up to his feet, and between the mess of shrieking students, he managed to signal the Knights to follow him, wands drawn, and eyes enlarged as they pushed their way to the main entrance. The Slytherin prefect caught a glimpse of the teacher table, quickly casting a night vision charm, and saw the utter bewilderment on their faces. Everyone except Albus Dumbledore, who met his gaze in a lock of mistrust and apprehension, yet made no move to stop the seven devils from running outside.

The wind scourged against Riddle's face, a tornado of crisis and armageddon, and his curls tangled as shrewd marine eyes trailed the horizon with phenomenon. He flickered his gaze to Icarus Lestrange, whose skin had turned to snow— cold and drained— and quivering fingers gripped the wand in fear. Fear, yes, but not for himself, only for Varya's safety.

It was almost odious how much he cared, and it puzzled Tom, as the girl had been transparent in her intentions with the Lestrange heir. The Slytherin prefect turned away with rage, feeling as if the other boy was stepping in on his territory, trying to protect something that did not belong to Icarus.

"The Forbidden Forest," declared Abraxas Malfoy as he turned to face Tom, "That is our best bet."

Seven pairs of feet clashed against the ground in rapid motions, carrying their bodies to the dark woods that stood on Hogwarts' estate, and as they approached the terrain, they felt the wind strengthen. Elladora gripped the trees tightly, trying to get her body to keep going against the strong current, before quickly moving her wand in rapid motions and cutting the zephyr to advance. Maxwell had cast his own charm, one that redirected the breeze to pass him, and had instructed the rest to do the same.

They continued into the forest until they reached a wooded area that had been shivered to bits, and carcasses of a few animals lay scattered around as if something had dropped a nuclear bomb on the surroundings.

Varya's body hung in the air, surrounded by swirls of darkness and mist, eyes as white as the Heavens, yet they belonged to no angel, and as soon as their presence had been felt, a whip of blackness made to decapitate at least one Knight, yet they all threw themselves back in absolute astonishment. Her form had changed to a corporeal one, yet it vibrated and flickered in and out, a red light surrounding her body.

"Bloody hell," muttered Avery, then quickly cast the others a look of uncertainty. They needed to get the girl to calm down; otherwise, she would soon wreck the whole school. He glanced around at the trees that had been outrooted and thrown to the sides, a graveyard of Nature and being, and puffed his cheeks in frustration, "Now what?".

"You take her down," ordered Tom, voice apathetic as his eyes fell on Varya, and his chest twisted with fascination and longing, before he shook it away and narrowed his eyes, "But do not harm her."

"You just told us to take her down," questioned Abraxas, eyebrow hoisted in confusion. He could sense something odd in his leader, and he was unsure how he felt about it.

"You fight an Obscurus by two things— overwhelm them with magic, or have someone they trust calm them down. Now, I doubt anyone here has done much to gain Petrov's trust, so you better use those years of training."

With that, the boy set to motion, and he sprinted to a tree near the girl's levitating body, and with a glance at his followers, he sent them into action. It was Nicholas Avery that moved first, and his stealthy moves had him covering a tremendous amount of ground, before he propelled himself into the air, and then sent a wave of fire daggers toward the Eastern witch.

They were immediately engulfed by Varya's magic, and a sinister smile danced on her face before she blasted the boy's body to the side, sending him rolling until he hit a tree trunk. Nicholas groaned at the feeling, scrunching his eyes before scrambling to his feet.

He tried again, this time sending a sound wave to discompose the Obscurus, knowing that magic functioned on frequencies. He watched in pleasure as Varya let out a demonic shriek, covering her ears as the sound rattled her brain, yet when her eyes opened with malevolence, it only took one hand move to splatter the boy against the ground. Avery's leg twisted underneath him, and he knew that he had been injured.

Elladora was next, and her eyes set in a caustic look before she pulled out her poisoned arrows. With a flick of a hand, she conjured a bow made of magic traces, almost as if lightning had taken a corporeal form, and she set one arrow on the string before pulling it back with one hand. Cherry hair blew in the torrent of the Obscurus, and cardinal lips smirked before the first shot was released, and the arrow zoomed through the air, gashing through magic and darkness.

Even so, Varya accomplished to redirect it entirely, then her body swirled in the air, and the Obscurus slashed through the trees as it tried to evade the charmed weapons. Selwyn growled, and then ran through the branches, chasing down the magical creature and plucking the string of her bow repeatedly, sending arrows to trace its way as it destroyed everything in its path.

The poison would immediately immobilize the girl, as the arrows were traced with chimera venom, yet the Obscurus managed to redirect all of them and shelter the host body.

"Watch out!" is all the Slytherin pure-blood heard before a heavy branch collided against her petite frame, and Elladora screamed as she felt one of her ribs break in her abdomen, eyes watering at the painful stab.

Icarus was by her side in a matter of seconds, and he glanced at her broken frame with worry, unsure what to do, before the girl sneered at him, "Go after her!".

The boy nodded, then trained honey eyes on the path of rumbles, and he continued the chase. Waves of dark clouds clashed against the sky, and the moonlight reduced itself to nothing but a reminiscent of what it used to be, covering the forest in absolute black. Icarus cursed himself as he stopped in one of the clearings, wand pointed at nothing in particular, and he spun around, trying to spot the girl.

Then, a cold hand touched his shoulder. He was twisted to face Varya's absolute madness, eyes void of any human emotion, and Lestrange gulped nervously. Her hand flew to his neck, and she raised his body in the air as he struggled to scratch at her fingers to release their tight grip.

His legs kicked around as the girl choked him, and his judgment clouded. Spots filled his vision as the air slowly left his system, and in a last effort to preserve himself, he flicked his wand, and he brought down lightning, electrifying the girl.

Petrov's screech filled the forest, and she threw his figure to the side as she fought against the electricity that spasmed her body. Her Obscurus slashed against the ground in agony, sending boulders against her surroundings, and Maxwell Nott barely managed to cast a shield around himself before it collided against him.

With trembling hands and unfocused eyes, the boy wiped the sweat of anxiety that had settled in his eyebrows— he was no trained fighter, and this would surely not end well. Regardless, he sought out the bravery in his heart, and with a flick of a wrist, he sent out two boulders against the girl. Varya raised her hand, angered beyond wits by Icarus' previous spell, and obliterated the rocks, having pebbles cover the clearing.

"Maxwell, back down!" yelled Icarus as he jumped back to his feet, and then he conjured a lash of magic from his wand and sent it against Petrov's body, grabbing her foot and dragging her to the ground. Nott took this as an opportunity to send a spell of water, and it carried a typhoon against the witch, knocking her against the rocky edge of a mountain that stood behind them.

Varya roared with fury, and then sent ripples of blackness to clatter the mountain, having an avalanche of rocks come down on the three of them. Lestrange jogged to Maxwell immediately and pushed him out of harm right as the stones came down on him. And then, it seemed as if Icarus disappeared under their weight completely.

The night stilled, and dust rose in the air from the avalanche, creating a thick blanket through the clearing that had Nott's eyes watering. Stars flashed down on the forest as they shouted out for Icarus' name, but the boy was nowhere to be found.

Nott gasped as his figure fell to the grass-covered floor, and then teary eyes glanced at where Icarus had just stood— but there was nothing there. Only a sea of boulders that would have surely crushed his body to bits. A weak hand flew to his mouth, and Maxwell bit back a sob of grief. His head had bashed against the ground too hard, and his temple had split open, as well as his lip.

"No, no, no! Where did he go?" Elladora Selwyn cried out as she limped to Nott, one hand over Abraxas' shoulder as he carried her to the mess of dust, and her outcry of agony sent a wave of crows against the sky as she fell to her knees, clutching her shirt as tears fell down her cheeks in fluctuations.

She screamed Icarus' name into the void, yet nothing answered, and Malfoy settled her to the ground as her soul-splitting cries filled the forest.

Her world collapsed in on itself, and for the first time in forever, the Selwyn heir had loyalty and compassion pulsate to her being as she stared with lustrous eyes at the spot where her childhood love had surely perished. The fire of grief blazed her being, and the witch went numb from anguish and torment, spluttering the boy's name as she gripped the grass and dug her nails in the soil.

And she remembered their moments, she recalled how her love for him had been the light to her being, and regardless of the envy and emptiness that it had brought, it had metastasized Elladora into the woman she was today. She had loved him with intent, with a burn like any other, and had watched Icarus fall for another person.

But it had been enough because his luminous smile had erased all traces of worry, and where Elladora could not make him happy, perhaps, someone else could. Yet, Varya had broken his heart, had treated him poorly, and that had had the Selwyn heir act out rashly against her roommate.

Warm arms wrapped around her, clutching her being to a muscular chest, and tangerine filled her senses as she sobbed into whoever was holding her. Then, a soft hand pushed her hair aside, and Elladora's eyes opened to glance into Icarus' honey ones.

"I am quite all right," he said softly, and then he held one small object against the rays of moonlight that broke through the clouds.

_A golden coin._

There was no time for any words to be exchanged, as the ground blew to bits, and Varya's Obscurus soared to the sky, standing against the sea of stars and clouds with a menacing threat. The mischievous smile still etched on the girl's face, she snapped her arms to the sky, and a tsunami of black mist sounded the ground as it drove its way to the Knights.

It was Abraxas that acted first, and his raven suit rumpled as he drove one hand into the air, making the boulders surround their figures and protect them from the dark magic that destroyed everything in its way. Sweat dripped down the side of his face as he fought to keep the barrier against the strong display of magic, and he only let it fall once the sound of the hurricane died down, and exposed them to Varya's macabre figure yet again.

Renold Rosier had barely managed to stumble into the clearing, eyes uncertain as he looked up at Varya with a perplexed gaze. He did not want to harm her, yet he knew they had to exhaust her magic, or else she would bring Hell Fire down on the castle.

He waved his wand in the air, then branches of trees extended themselves and clasped at Varya's limbs, momentarily immobilizing her as she struggled against his hold. He ran quickly, the stones forming steps under his feet, and then he neared her body with apprehension.

"You have to stop right now," he yelled over the absolute roaring of her torrent, but she continued to grapple like a caged animal against the branches before ripping her arms from them. Her raven hair flowed around her in fast motions, and then everything seemed to slow down as she glanced at Rosier with lunatic eyes.

A sneer graced her face, and then she leaned over to whisper in his ear, "Goodbye."

With that, Ren was catapulted into the air, and his throat burned as he screamed in fright right before his body collided against one of the trees, snapping his arm to bits, and the bone punctured through flesh as sanguine spit on the surroundings, damaging Abraxas' suit. He fell to the ground with a whimper, and Nott managed to run to him and clasp his face.

"Stay calm," Maxwell muttered quickly, trying his best to charm the bone back in, yet it only slashed the flesh further, as medical spells were not his speciality, "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Icarus!"

The handy boy was by his side immediately, and blue light danced from his palms as he placed them against Ren's cold skin, trying to drown out the young boy's painful cries as he pushed the bone back into its place before sealing the wound. It would still be broken until Elladora could give them the bone healing potion, but at least there would be no infection.

Tom Riddle and Nicholas Avery pushed through the line of trees, and the Dark Lord frowned as he saw the girl still standing high and mighty. He knew everyone was expecting him to battle her, yet after failing to use the Killing Curse on the Petrov witch, the boy had grown terrified— what if he could no longer fight her?

"Riddle, you need to go against her too," spluttered Nott, "We all have to."

Sighing in discontent, Tom strode over to the middle of the clearing, right before Varya's form as it rose against the midnight sky, watching him with apprehension. And he saw it, he saw the flicker of raven in her eyes at his presence, and he gulped slowly before raising his wand.

"Stop this, Varya," his voice thundered against the sonorous whirring of the wind, and his locks flew to the sides as it only intensified when the girl heard his voice.

"You killed her," she screeched, and then a whip of darkness made to lash against Tom's body, yet he immobilized it with an exhausting spell, fighting against the natural power of the Obscurus.

He stayed silent, not accepting, nor denying, and then with an intricate motion of hands, he performed a simple sigil he had seen the girl do many times. Varya felt the magic surge from her body, and she fought with rigor against his spell that attempted to block her sorcerer channels. Then, her body exploded into a rage of dark and black and terror, and it struck against Riddle's frame, launching him into the air before he fell against the mess of sharp rocks.

Tom hissed in pain as he felt a stabbing injury in his arm, and he glanced to his side, where one rock had perforated his forearm, sending gushes of blood against his sweater. His tissues had opened to the soil, and a piece of flesh and skin hung from the wound. He closed his eyes at the sight of his fatality, and bit down on his lip to prevent the loud curse that threatened to spill as his mind spun to insanity. It was becoming too much— failure, blood, death, torture.

And then the faint smell of Varya radiated from the sweater he was wearing, and it was a gentle stroke against the wall of agony that fenced his brain, pushing against the barricade as little soldiers of sorrow tried to annihilate the light. Riddle blinked lethargically, then opened his eyes to the night sky, and everything plummeted to darkness as the clouds covered the yonder. His head bobbed to the side, and he watched the river of red trail between the stones and into the ground.

They all went back to the ground at some point, did they not? But no, he would not. He could not.

He pushed himself up with a groan and watched as Varya's Obscurus pulverized the trees to their left in rage, and the clouds cackled as lightning covered the sky in intricate webs of golden and white. The sound of thunder vibrated through matter and being, and rain poured down on everything owned by mankind and dampened Nature in a puddle of ruins and mortality.

Tom pulled the rock out of his arm, then threw the sanguine colored stone to the side, and turned to face his followers as they stood against the line of trees, resolve and power in their eyes— a line of young soldiers that had pledged loyalty to the Lord of Darkness and Despair.

Nicholas Avery stood on one foot, the other having been broken during collision, and his face twisted in pain as drenched locks covered his forehead. Yet he burned of slyness and wrath, and he stepped by Tom's side, needing no call to action.

Abraxas Malfoy was next— intact, yet blood had splattered against his immaculate appearance, and for the first time, he seemed less like a collected creature and more like a vengeful human. With quick steps, he took Riddle's right side, eyes hardened as he glanced at the girl that had surrounded herself with darkness.

With dragged feet, Elladora joined them, hand still clutching Icarus' shirt as the two stepped by the other three Knights, and she glanced up at her friend's face to see the turmoil in his eyes. He still loved Varya, he probably always would, and it pained him to see her break as such.

Maxwell managed to support Rosier's figure, and his bloodied face turned to the Obscurus as it continued to wreck against the mountain, trying to destroy it and send it crashing against the castle's wall. He gulped nervously and glanced at Ren as the boy struggled to figure out what he was supposed to do, mind still messed from the pain.

The seven of them stood in one line, the wave of wind slashing against their bruised and dust-covered faces as they watched the girl they had tormented for months finally unleash her powers against them. Rain poured down on their figures as they stared in the face of their apocalypse.

Then, one by one, they all raised their wands, holding them against the sky before they drove them down, bringing a flash of color down as their powers merged into one, and it hit Varya Petrov right in the chest. A combination of seven different capacities, all different in constitution and intensity, and yet they fell into a ballet of efficacy and vigor, a force of nature. And they were the order that would crumble the world.

Lightning struck the forest again as the Knights of Walpurgis' magic soared through the air, ripping at atoms and clashing frequencies, and one beam of dark light hit the Obscurus as it trashed madly in the sky.

Varya's screech filled the night, and her eyes flickered from white to onyx as the magic overwhelmed her senses, and her darkness fought against the light of the seven Knights.

An explosion of black erupted, and Abraxas brought the shield up yet again and raised them above the ground as it fissured and broke apart, and trees and rocks fell into nothingness. He stared down at the void between the floor, and something in him chilled over, almost as if he could hear Hell finally calling for them to repay for their crimes.

Varya's shape spasmed, and then, with one final move, it started plummeting to the ground head-first as the Obscurus retracted itself into her body. Tom jumped from the stone edge Malfoy had risen, and he ran until he caught her from the air, sending them both to the ground.

He groaned as he felt his arm twitch at the strenuous move, and his nerve exploded with agony as he held Varya's unconscious form and carried it back to the group, where all had sullen expressions on their faces.

"She is not..." Rosier trailed off, still clutching his head as the pain continued to persist.

"No," the Lord's voice was final, and he glanced at Varya's face with a disgustingly soft gaze before collecting himself, "Only knocked out. Varya will be fine."

He placed her body on the ground, then ordered Avery to take off his cape before putting it underneath her head and letting her recover as he discussed with his Knights.

They were all watching him, perplexed by his uncharacteristic gestures, yet something told them Tom was no longer the tyrant he had once been. Still dark, still demonic, still a psychopath, yet something had shifted, and Riddle was finally maturing into the dark leader they expected him to be and overcoming his impulsive and childish rage storms.

"What now?" asked Malfoy, scrubbing at his jacket with irritation on his features. His eyes were periwinkle blue, lighter than Tom's, yet they carried some sort of anxiety as he continued to pick at his clothes eagerly.

Tom thought deeply, unsure of what to tell them. The scene, although it had happened in the darkness, would surely raise enough questions from students, and Varya would undoubtedly be obliged to leave Hogwarts as soon as exams were over. With the looming threat of Ivy's death, Hogwarts would indeed close for the summer, and the future would become blank— a canvas ready for painting.

"The year is ending," his voice boomed through the forest, and resolved marine eyes trained on his acolytes as he spoke with an imperial voice, "This incident will send Petrov out of the school, and with Trouche's death, it is beyond doubt that the school will close. As summer passes by, we regroup at the Malfoy Manor, and we do what we have always done— we scheme, we plot, we manipulate. Nothing has changed as far as our cause is concerned, and between now and next year, I will create my first Horcrux."

He tried not to glance at Varya; he tried not to let the doubt slip through his mind. No, he had to keep his path. Tom would achieve great things, and with Petrov gone, the possibilities were endless.

Yet, his soul twisted, and it felt as if he was losing part of himself with her. But it had to be done, and his affection had to be barricaded between high walls until he achieved his ultimate goal— immortality. Then, only after such a task was completed, could he ever bring himself to reunite with her, and they would reign together over the wizarding world if they so desired.

"Riddle," rasped Elladora, before coughing as she felt the rib push against her lung, "Her necklace— she has a Horcrux."

Selwyn was unsure of why she had said it. Perhaps, it was her loyalty to Tom, or maybe it was her awareness that the boy would know that Varya would share his fate regardless of what would happen.

"Is that so?" smirked Tom, and he kneeled before the Eastern witch's fallen body before grasping the chain on her neck. Indeed, he felt the magic pulsating against his skin, and he was beyond pleased with the circumstances. She would be safe outside of Hogwarts.

"What of Trouche?" asked Rosier suddenly, who was still confused about what had happened, "Did you truly kill her?"

Their leader picked up Varya once again, and then he began walking towards the woods and out of the clearing, knowing that it was best she be delivered to Dumbledore before she woke up. He glanced down at her face, and fought back the warmth that pooled in his being with repugnance. Weakness. Flaw. Mortality. His eyes snapped back up, and with a guttural voice, he spoke over his shoulders.

"No, I did not."

***

Two hours. Varya had let him be tortured in the Ravenclaw Salon for two hours, watching his blood slip in and out of his system until his mind broke. He had gone animalistic against the chair, spasming and fighting against the mental grip she had placed him in until his whole garments had drenched in sweat, and his body had gone numb with exhaustion.

The curse would not even let him close his eyes, nor turn his head away. No, he was doomed to watch everything, to feel the terror of being on the verge of death over and over and over and over again.

Two hours, yet it had felt like years.

Tom marched through the Hogwarts hallway with vengeance on his mind, and his hands were on his wand as he clasped it in his robe. There was an odd taste in his mouth, metallic, and it drove him to the point of breaking.

Then, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Della Beauchamp run through the hallways, almost as if she was late to meeting someone, and a sadistic smirk fell on his face. He waited by the window, then watched her dash through the gardens like a headless chicken— unsuspecting, awaiting, and completely oblivious.

He wondered, then, how he should do it. The basilisk had not been released fully, and with Arthur Thompson coming back to Hogwarts after the mandrake potion had cured him, there was enough time for another attack before the year would end. Yet how would he cover it? Dumbledore had already started suspecting him, and it was only a matter of time before he would begin to keeping an annoyingly close watch on the Slytherin prefect.

Moreover, something told Riddle that killing the muggle-born witch would not satisfy him, and as much as he desired to get retaliation on the Eastern girl, murdering her closest friend would surely destroy her. He was not sure if he still wanted that.

Succumbed to his train of thought, Tom did not notice that he had lost track of the Beauchamp girl, and in her place was now standing Ivy Trouche, who had also seen Della wandering around. The Slytherin male prefect frowned at their odd behavior, as students did not usually saunter the estate at such odd hours, and something told him to follow Ivy.

So he stepped outside into the pleasant breeze of a May night, and stepped to where he had last seen the girl, mind twirling as he tried to find a reason for her disappearance. His legs took him to one of the courtyards, right by the Astronomy Tower, and he glanced around in dismay as to where they had both disappeared.

Indeed, Della must have gone back inside, as she had not been outside when Tom had glanced out of the window, yet Trouche would still be around. She was a sly one, and as athletic as she was, there was no possibility of her having gone back so quickly.

Then, a shadow trodded on the ground, almost as if a monster had risen from the horizon, and Tom pivoted on his feet to glance at the Astronomy Tower, where Slytherin's Golder Girl stood on the margin, shaking her head fiercely as her sobs filled the air.

"Please—please, I saw nothing!" her voice quivered as she fell to her knees, and Riddle saw the black hooded figure that stood in front of her, delicate hand shaking as it clutched a wooden wand, "You do not have to do this, I can just turn away and I— Please, I have so much ahead of me."

The girl scrambled to her feet immediately, backing up slowly as the feminine figure approached her tentatively, and then the person spoke in a brittle voice, "Do you not understand? I have to do this. I have to kill you...or he is going to kill me."

Ivy covered her face as she continued to cry, and Tom watched her form as it stood against the moon— golden, youthful, pure. She had been the definition of everything he despised, a girl that had been brought up through love and power, and regardless of her strict parents, she had achieved everything she wanted.

Many said that she was to be Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch Team next year, and on her way to becoming Head Girl. She was the epitome of their House, and many believed her to be proof that not all Slytherins were evil. No, some were like Ivy Trouche— formidable students who strove against all odds, who stopped at nothing to achieve their goals, and yet lead groups with vigor and grace.

They had all denounced her, the Knights, and it had been so ever since their first years at Hogwarts. Tom had tried to pull her to their cause, but Ivy wanted no part in it. She did not care for blood purity as much as the rest, and above all, the witch was a one-woman storm. Ivy had never needed anyone, and that was an insult to them.

The figure approached her, and that is when Ivy, in her utter panic, finally let her foot slip off of the tower's edge, and her body collapsed over the railing. Her scream filled the night, and her body plummeted to the ground, where it splattered against the pavement in a mess of organs and tissue.

Tom flinched at the sonance, and for a second, he stood mineralized in his spot, unsure what to do. Then, a thought occurred in his mind— this was his key. If he made Varya believe that he had been the one to murder Ivy, then the girl would finally break all ties with him, and the disgusting fluttering in his stomach would disappear, would it not? It would be replaced by emptiness, by agony at her absence, and then Tom would finally feel whole again.

With small steps, he made way to the cadaver, and even he— the Dark Lord— had to turn his face away for a second. Her skull had broken completely, and now blood pooled on the stone floor, dirtying his shoes that Malfoy had just cleaned up. Her arm was twisted at an odd angle, and her elbow had broken through skin, bruising her pale figure as red started to push against her epidermis and gather.

The haematic liquid spluttered from her lips as the girl choked on it, and perhaps the most horrifying thing was that she was not dead, but on the verge of it.

"Riddle," she rasped, voice muffled as she struggled to breathe, and Tom sighed as he took in her broken frame.

Her spine must have collapsed as well by the peculiar form she had taken, and her chest moved up and down slowly as her last breaths came in.

The boy glanced at her scared expression, and he knew. He knew what she was asking— put her out of her misery. Survival was not possible anymore, and no potion would cure her injuries fast enough to keep her alive. But the pain was temporary, and the sooner death came, the lesser the girl would suffer.

"Please," was the last word she managed to croak out before her whole mouth filled with blood, and perhaps something had perforated her lung, and her eyes glazed over as the Golden Girl pleaded with the slightest vigor she had left.

To Tom Riddle, the scene was beautiful, poetic even— a woman of such qualities succumbing to mortality, an aureate being filled with possibility and a future that would have sparkled like a burning apollo. Yet Death had taken it all from her, had crushed her body like a cockroach. Now there would be no Ivy Trouche to lead the Slytherin House to victory, no Ivy Trouche to help Varya find herself amongst Hogwarts' walls, no Ivy Trouche to scold the first years when they became too noisy in the Common Room.

As a fellow prefect, Tom had been around her often enough to believe that Slytherin never quite fitted her well. No, Ivy had been a Lion at heart, and the boy had found himself wondering at times why the Sorting Hat had not sent her to Gryffindors, with the rest of those he despised above all. Perhaps, it was her bloodline, or maybe the girl had asked the hat to put her in such House. Regardless, she had worn silver and green with pride, and had been a girl that defeated the odds.

Her fingers twitched by her side, and the agony danced in her eyes as Tom watched her slip away, contemplating on what to do. The scene reminded him of the one in Albania, where he had saved the little girl's body from the collapsing mine, and he wondered why such actions of mercy suddenly crossed his mind. But part of him knew. He knew it was because of Varya, and that made his blood boil.

Then, the boy finally raised his wand and pointed it at her chest, and his lips parted as he muttered the words, unsure of whether it would work.

"Avada Kedavra."

Green flashed across the yard, and his robes ruffled as the curse hit Ivy, and her eyes finally glazed over as Death welcomed her into its arms. The boy gulped as he stared at her body, and then a thought pounded at his skull.

He had used the Killing Curse successfully. Yet, it seemed that it had not worked against Varya Petrov, and what did that mean to him? If there was still enough darkness to murder another student, then why could he not even say the words for the Eastern witch? It seemed that his rules of existence did not apply to her, and that perplexed him.

The sanguine liquid continued to trail on the pavement, and Tom scrunched his nose before stepping aside and trying to get it off of his shoes, knowing that he could not leave a trail behind. The sight of Ivy Trouche's corpse irritated him, and he felt the need to look away from the inconvenience.

So, he glanced up, and that was the moment the hooded figure decided to peek over the edge, hair falling softly around the refined face as troubled eyes glanced at the mess below. And that is when Tom recognized the person, and his lips pulled in a sinister smirk.

Della's eyes flashed to his, and the tears on her face seemed to dry as she kept the gaze lock, body not moving an inch in horror. Then, Tom inclined his head in wonder, and the girl breathed slowly.

They stood against the night scenery, wind ruffling their clothes as pained irises glanced at curious ones, and their secrets slipped through cracks as the faintest whisper of instability threatened to drive both of them mad.

The odor of death hung into the air, and they both turned around to head their ways, each a different person than they had been before


	56. chapter fifty-four

THE KNIGHTS OF WALPURGIS marched through the obscure hallways, shadows gliding on their faces as they passed the candlelight. Some staggered, some shivered, yet all were alive, and that was all that mattered. Tom walked ahead, carrying Varya and neglecting the stinging ache in his arm, and he tried not to look at his flesh as it hung from the open wound.

Icarus helped Elladora, as the girl's eyebrows furrowed in agony, and blood coated her apricot lips as she clutched her side, trying to steady her ribs as they walked. Even so, she made no sound of pain and endured it all until they reached Dumbledore's office.

"I go in," said Tom, not even turning to face his acolytes, yet he felt them all nod, "Wait here."

With that, he opened the door to his study, not even bothering to knock, and in stepped the Slytherin prefect with an unconscious girl in his arms. Albus' gaze immediately fastened to him, and yet he did not look surprised. With a small hand gesture, he transfigured one of his chairs into a hospital bed and instructed Tom to place the girl down.

Riddle did just that, letting Varya's body down on the bed, then took a step back as he analyzed her figure. The girl seemed fatigued, beaten up by her disintegrating mind, and he knew that the parasite was feeding on her vitality. Even with the Horcrux, the girl would still experience lethargy after being haunted by her Obscurus.

"I assume her Obscurus unleashed after the news," his ragged voice dragged out each word, and Tom bit back the provocation as he clasped hands behind his back, maintaining his mask of perfectness and grace even in such moments, "I saw you and your...friends...run out of the Great Hall in quite a hurry. Unusual for a group of students to act so rashly in the face of danger they do not understand."

"Professor Dumbledore, I only instructed them to do what was right and save Hogwarts from impending doom. I believed it to be my duty as the Slytherin prefect to protect this school," he said gallantly, voice dripping with pretense innocence. His eyes snapped to Varya again, and he cleared his throat, "Miss Petrov has confided in me about her _peculiar_ condition, and so I believed it was only right to ensure her safety as well. I have been keeping a close watch on her, Professor, and I believe Ivy's death triggered her odd behavior. But I must assure you; nobody was harmed."

Albus' eyebrow twitched at the obvious sham nativity, and he sat at his desk, twirling his peacock quill in his hands, "And why not alert a superior, Tom?".

It was Riddle's turn to smile arrogantly, "But I presumed you knew, Professor, at least by Varya's words," he lied. However, he knew the teacher was aware of the girl's conditions, and simply chose to ignore it due to his weakness of character, "And when nobody seemed to act, I merely stepped in."

"What a brave heart you have," remarked Dumbledore knowingly, then strode over to the girl's frame, gazing over her figure with concern. He lifted his wand, then trailed it above her body, inspecting for internal injuries, yet found none. He shifted to face Riddle again, "Then, I must make sure such a selfless act is rewarded, should I not? The school will want an explanation as to what happened, and I will cover the story accordingly. I suppose you will not mind collaborating on this. After all, it will protect Varya's identity."

The fifth-year boy pursed his lips, despising the way Dumbledore had picked up on his attachment to the Eastern witch, and he could not help but wonder how many more would. A fault, a flaw— this was the reason he had to cut ties with the girl as quickly as possible, regardless of how unpleasant it would be.

Tom nodded, then something in his eyes shifted, "Are the rumors true?" he began, voice modulated, "About the school? I do not have a home to go to. They would not really close Hogwarts, would they, Professor?"

"I understand, Tom. But I am afraid Master Dippet may have no choice," Albus answered as he sat down at his desk again, then pulled a paper and started scribbling down a note.

"If it all stopped," began Riddle, standing woodenly in the center of the room, "If the person responsible was caught..."

Dumbledore raised his eyes to Tom's figure, glancing at the boy over his framed glasses with marine irises, and in them swam some awareness that the Slytherin hated. The battered man and his ludicrous consciousness, never letting anything show, "Is there something you wish to tell me?".

Tom feigned wonderment, then his eyes flew to the floor in sham humbleness, before he shifted from one foot to another. His mind swirled with one possibility— turning Della Beauchamp in. Yet the girl had seen him standing over the body and using the Unforgivable Curse on Ivy Trouche. He had hidden the traces of his magic, yet if Aurors started sniffing around, it would be hard to tell where the investigation would lead.

"No, sir. Nothing," he answered, blinking monotonically as his eyes enlarged, and they glistened with lack of culpability as he gawked at Albus Dumbledore, the abridgment of a perfect student.

The Transfiguration teacher slanted his head and raised his eyebrows in an attempt to rattle the boy, and Tom's Adam apple bobbed as he felt scrutinized. Yet, he was an immaculate image of his persona, and he knew Dumbledore would have no proof of any of his wrong-doings.

"Very well," was what he answered, "I will discuss further details with Miss Petrov when she wakes up. Off you go."

"Goodnight, sir," stated Tom before lowering his gaze to the ground, and he pivoted on his feet and started to the door. With one last flicker of azure to Varya's figure, he twisted the knob and pushed himself into the hallways, where the Knights were causing a ruckus.

Rosier was up on his feet, wielding a flask of alcohol around and pouring it on where his skin had started healing, wincing and bitting down on his robe as he threw his head back at the pain. The rest of the Knights were watching him in astonishment, unsure how to react as the fumes of fire whiskey transversed the hallway.

Tom marched up to him, then grabbed his healed hand and pulled him backward, "What in Merlin's name are you doing?" he hissed, venomous voice dipping low as he continued hauling the boy away, and the rest of the group tarried behind.

Ren battled against his hold, almost maddened, and he screeched as if Tom had struck him with lightning. His eyes swirled with agony, and cold sweat covered his face, having his hair stick to his forehead as he snatched his arm out of Riddle's hold, sinking to his knees and holding it as he sobbed.

"The wound," he cried out to the night, "The wound will not stop bleeding. Stop it from hurting! Stop it!"

Nott exchanged a brief glance with Lestrange, who settled down the maiden of the group against a wall, her skin pale as she spluttered blood, and he gave her an apologetic look before trailing to the other injured man.

Icarus grabbed Ren's hand gently, then pushed up the sleeve of his robe, trying to reveal the wound that the boy had been complaining about. Perhaps, the spell had not caught on properly, and the skin had ruptured after they had cast the communal charm against the Obscurus. Yet, when he glanced at Rosier's skin, astonishment passed the duelist's face— there was no sign of injury, and besides a scar of where the bone had pushed through, no trace had been left on the boy's skin.

Lestrange drew in a breath, then gazed at Riddle, "His nerve has been pinched most probably," he stated rapidly, then tried to calm down the other boy as he trashed on the floor in agony, "I have to get him to a hospital— potions will not cure this. He needs a physician as soon as possible, or he might lose his hand."

Tom nodded, frowning at the news, "Do what you must."

The honey eyed boy bobbed his head in affirmation, then placed a soft hand on Ren's shoulder, and lifted him up, letting his forehead fall in the crook of his neck as he sobbed. Then, they started walking in the opposite direction before disappearing behind a wall. Tom's eyes trailed them as they marched away, and he bit back the irritation at Renold's display of weakness. It was unacceptable— one of his Knights displaying such mannerism, wailing from a bad injury as if the world had ended.

He shifted to Elladora, who was panting as she tried to keep her composure, and sanguined lips separated with each inhale and exhale. Her viridescent eyes had polished over with rubious lines that hinted of burst vessels, and they cruised their surroundings with fatigue. She wiped her nose with a weak hand, then made to stand up, but her body crashed back down.

Tom walked over to her, then glanced down with an aggressive expression, "Up," he ordered vigorously, and Selwyn shot recalcitrant eyes at him.

"I cannot get up," she choked out, then coughed some more, and blood trailed down her chin as she sniffed and scrunched her eyes, feeling them burn from the undoubted fever that was eating at her skin, "I need help."

With a small scoff, Tom pivoted on his feet and walked ahead, letting Nott run to the girl and help her stand to her feet. They continued cruising behind until they reached the owlery. Then Riddle opened the Ravenclaw Salon, before holding the door open as the Abraxas and Nott carried the injured Knights inside, settling them down on divans.

Avery was less of a mess, having gotten used to broken bones, yet even he seemed beyond exhausted, as his magic had been consumed by the spell they had used against Varya. As skilled as he was with weapons, Nicholas was not as brilliant in magic combat, and regularly used daggers or arrows as compensation.

Tom opened one of the drawers in the cabinets and took out a few vials of potions before handing them to Elladora and Nicholas. They both downed them, faces scrunching at the absolute bitter taste, yet their bones immediately popped back into place with a resonant sound.

Then, their leader turned to Nott, who was standing to the side as he watched with celadon eyes and ran a delicate hand through his ashy hair. His striped sweater, oversized and slightly worn, clung to his small figure, and the eye-bags under his eyes were more prominent after the strenuous battle.

"I need you to bring Della Beauchamp to me," announced Riddle as he sat down in one chair, one leg thrown over the other, and he took out an ointment and sutures for his wound.

"Now?" quacked Maxwell in surprise, arms falling to his sides as he stared at Tom's back. When he received a nod of the head, he sighed deeply, then turned around and sauntered into the tower, before taking the stairs and going to look for the Ravenclaw prefect.

Reticence drummed in the air as the rest of the Knights tended to their injuries, and Abraxas Malfoy switched between the three injured soldiers as he struggled to mend their wounds and calm their nerves. Avery had been the easiest, and in no time, he was up on his feet and kicking them around to test his bones, his tie colored with dirt and grass, and his uniform torn to bits. Elladora had already acquired a fever, and as much as Malfoy tried to bring it down with her potions, the girl continued to be covered in a cold sweat.

Tom had refused everyone's help, and had taken it to himself to suture his open wound, not even flinching as he watched the needle punch through his torn flesh, stitching up the skin as the blood began to dry. He breathed slowly, mechanically, as his thoughts bifurcated and collided at fast speeds.

Bitterly, he pursed his lips and closed his eyes before inhaling deeply, trying to gain some clarity, yet whenever he looked behind his eyelids, he only ever saw Varya Petrov's face. Azuline irises revealed themselves to the world, and his jaw set in annoyance as one question spun his mind— how had one girl managed almost to destroy his battalion of trained assassins and intellectuals?

More so, why had he— arguably the strongest— cowered before Varya? Why had he hesitated in dueling her? Indeed, his failure in killing her had undoubtedly been a blast to his ego, yet his magic seemed to refuse to act against the witch.

Much as hers had, because if Tom knew one thing about Obscurials, it was that their Obscurus always lashed against the cause of their pain. Yet, Varya had fled the scene instantly instead of attacking the boy, and even during battle, her darkness had not struck him as it had done to the rest. There was only one answer he could find for her behavior— the witch truly did love him.

Riddle wanted to recoil at the thought— he had never received warmth from anyone, and he intended to stay a cold-blooded serpent until he outran time. Nevertheless, Tom's mind flashed to their shared nights, the way he had touched her skin with the neediest desire, and the boy gawked at his fingers as they tingled from the memory.

The door opened behind him, and Tom turned to look over his shoulder as Maxwell Nott dragged a terrified Della inside, who was trying to fight against his tight grip weakly. The boy pushed her forward, and she stumbled before falling to her knees in front of Tom's feet.

Riddle smirked, and then hoisted an eyebrow at her trembling figure, "Well, we have some talking to do, am I correct?".

Della's eyes darted around the room, and with half the courage she had, she rose to her feet, then pointed her wand at Tom's nose. Her lips parted to send out a hex, but Avery was faster, and he immediately placed a blade against her throat, "Eat your words, my love."

Tears started to fall from the girl's almond eyes, and her body rattled with painful sobs before she spluttered out incoherent words, "I— I did not kill her, I swear. He only— I do not—"

"Now," began Tom as he raised a hand and stopped her mumbling, then dragged a chair and sat in front of the girl as Nicholas continued to hold her, "Slowly, and start from the beginning."

The girl swallowed harshly, then glanced at Avery's hand, and Riddle waved him away. The boy grunted, displeased at not being able to torture the girl, then retracted in the shadows, watching with maddened eyes and waiting for the signal to execute.

"I did not want to kill her," Della announced as her voice cracked, and she closed her eyes tightly, hand pressing against her lips as she suppressed a sob, "But he told me to. He said— he said that you and Varya had killed his first in command, and so it was only fair that the price be repaid."

"Grindelwald?" sounded Malfoy from behind, and then he circled around the girl, blue eyes focused on her mortified ones.

The muggle-born witch nodded fastly, "Yes," she breathed slowly, trying to moderate her volume, "It happened during the spring vacation. Felix had just left my place after an argument, and I went for a walk to try and figure out what I— it does not matter. Regardless, I was walking around London, my family could not evacuate, and then two wizards grabbed me and dragged me to this hideout. And that is when Grindelwald came out—"

"He spoke to you directly?" mused Tom, surprised that the Dark Wizard would bother discussing with a muggle-born, "What did he say?".

Della lowered her head, and yet the pain in her voice was enough to understand her internal turmoil, "That he had my dad," she whispered terribly, and then she pulled out a small compact mirror from her pocket. With delicate hands, she handed it over to Tom.

The boy took it, and his being immediately buzzed at the familiar trace of Varya's magic, but he pushed the thought aside and opened it. Inside was the moving image of a muggle, and Tom scrunched his nose in repugnance as he took in his disheveled state— he seemed to be malnourished, and he stood in a prison cell on the floor, shaking underneath one dusty rag. He snapped the mirror shut, then passed it off to Malfoy.

His curls bounced as he turned to face the witch once again, "And instead of reaching out to your friends, you decided to kill one of them?" he scoffed.

"No!" yelled Della, and she made to stand up, only to be grabbed by Nott and dragged back down, "He told me to kill her, but I never wanted to. He tortured my father daily, and I had to watch through the mirror. It was morbid curiosity— I did not want to see it, but I had to know he was still alive, and it drove me insane. I felt powerless, and still, I refused to carry out the task, begging that a solution would arise. But then, I had to go to the Astronomy Tower to receive a message, and Ivy...oh my god, Ivy..."

Her wailings filled the room, and the naive girl clutched her shirt as she continued to cry out her friend's name. Tom bit the inside of his cheek, then scoffed at the display of grief before turning to face Malfoy, who was glancing at Della with furrowed eyebrows. It was peculiar— seeing such a lively girl finally break, and it only reminded him that nobody was ever genuinely sinless. Every human would answer Hell's call if it rang boisterously.

"What are you thinking?" inquired Tom, who had always respected the heir's point of view.

Malfoy licked his lips before turning to face his Lord, "Trouche caught her red-handed while she was receiving a message from Grindelwald, and the muggle-born reacted badly. You said Ivy fell to her death, and it was an accident?"

"Indeed, it was," contemplated Tom, his eyes darting back to the Beauchamp girl, "Stop your foolish weeping, you absolute nuisance. You did not kill Trouche— she fell to her death. You do not have what it takes to murder."

"But, I had no choice, and I—I tried to get Varya away from you. I attempted to warn her, tell her your presence would only bring her doom. But Grindelwald wanted more."

"The only thing you are, Beauchamp," declared Tom, a small sneer covering his face as his tongue of serpentine moved in alert motions, "Is a coward. A coward for betraying your friends because you were not brave enough to take the risk and ask for their help. And now one of them is dead."

"Merlin, Riddle," groaned Elladora from her divan, drenched cherry hair sticking to her face as she pushed herself up, "Give the girl a break, would you?"

"I do not entertain traitors, Selwyn," barked Tom with fury, and then pursed his lips before gazing at Beauchamp with interest, "But I do believe we have fashioned ourselves a spy."

Della glanced at them with crystal eyes, and she patted at her freckled face before feeling a sinister sensation crawl up her arms, "A spy? If he finds out—"

With one flicker of a finger, Riddle had Avery grabbing the girl yet again, and the glade's sharp point was pressed against the side of her neck, right where her pulse drummed against dry skin, "Well, then," purred Tom, fiendish eyes trailing her scared face, "You better make sure he does not, correct?"

The witch swallowed harshly, and nodded reluctantly, "Yes."

"Good," Tom smirked, then gestured to Malfoy, "You fancy yourself a little pet, Abraxas? She is your responsibility from now on. Consider it your task for the summer— make sure she stays loyal to the Knights and siphons as much information as possible."

Abraxas rolled his eyes in defiance, yet hummed in agreement before grabbing Beauchamp's arm and dragging her to her feet. With darkened eyes, the boy glared at her, making sure that she knew this was nothing but business, and that he did not associate himself with the likes of her in normal circumstances.

With a shaky breath, Della turned to face the Slytherin prefect once again, "Will you tell them?" she breathed slowly, "Felix and Varya, will you tell them what I did?"

"That you almost handed over your best friend to the one man that she hates more than me?" ridiculed Tom, then he leaned forward, elbows on his shoulder as he masked his own uncertainty with mockery, "Well, that would be a dent in our little agreement, would it not? I cannot have you collaborating with anyone else. Everything you hear, everything you see— you report to me only. Is that clear?"

When the girl did not answer immediately, Malfoy clutched her arm harshly, earning a small yelp from her before she glanced at Tom, "Crystal."

Riddle waved them away, and Malfoy escorted Beauchamp out of the room, letting the door slam behind.

Silence fell into place, and then Tom spoke out, his voice guttural, "Clear out of the room." When the Knights gave him a bewildered look, he thundered, "Now!".

Steps echoed through the chamber, and Nott seized Elladora's weak frame before hoisting her up and following Avery out of the salon. When their movements could no longer be heard, Tom Riddle finally let silence engulf his mind, and it seemed to scream louder than anything else.

A broken boy stood on a chair in an ancient salon, and he wondered how much further he would have to go until everything would finally set into place, when he would eventually have enough power to stop running against time and death. His head felt heavy, and he twisted it from side to side, trying to shake away the weight that pressed against his being.

A demon of misery clutched to his chest, and sursurrated in his ear with venom and capriciousness, telling a tale of a cold night in his early years, when he had been abandoned to the world. That had been the beginning of his endless chase, right there, in room number seven of Wool's Orphanage— Tom Riddle had died along with his mother, and instead, the Darkest Wizard of all time had birthed from void and suffering.

His mind had fallen in a pit of vipers, and they sunk their poisonous teeth in, corrupting his thoughts with violence and vexation, creating a fable of heinous macabrity. The wizard had vowed to take vengeance on the world that had forsaken him, on the Creator that had elected him to be a mistake in the binary code of life— made of good and evil, and right and wrong, and black and white. The colors mixed themselves in, and where some saw Tom as a savior, others saw him as an evil creature. After all, the villain always changed depending on who told the story.

The boy thought he was neither— he only saw power and glory, and what people believed him to be mattered less in his eyes. His fanaticism, theories, and purpose were born out of resentment and wrath, and only those who shared his experiences could understand.

With each passing day, the claws of the Devil sunk deeper in his skin, begging him to return to Hell, where his soul would be devoured to its rotten core, and each night it plagued the wizard's dreams as Death neared him. And his obsession grew roots in every particle of his being, until there was nothing but despair and rage, and the parasitic plants extended themselves through flesh and blood, clogging everything.

And then, one single flower bloomed in Tom Riddle's garden.

Through all the horrors and sufferings, one lonesome plant opened its petals inside the arctics of Tom's heart, and now, he could feel its pollen fly as the zephyr of his mind spread it around, seeding more warmth inside. And butterflies— butterflies relished the colorful nuances and saccharine taste of sweet pollen, and so they nested themselves in the boy's abdomen and scrapped against his flesh with daggered wings.

Because it hurt— caring for Varya Petrov hurt— especially when he hemorrhaged through his tissues as the warmth extended itself. Tom had grown used to the fauna that had plagued him for years, and he had adapted to his niche much like any other predator would, feasting on the sorrow, on the misery, on the wrath. And that was the thing with ecological systems— they tend to disintegrate when unbalanced. So in the absence of his life supply of anguish, Tom found himself famishing, and he tenaciously refused to settle the craving with affectionate touches and melted lips on heated skin.

Regardless, his mind continued to be plagued by murderous intent, and there was no denying his instability. Because of that, a storm of conflict rose inside, and he found himself divided in half— on one side was his sinister appetite for murder, the phenomenal mind of a serial killer, and on the other side was the softness that invaded his abdomen and heart, his undoubted feelings for Varya. Tom found himself to be moribund at her hands, and no Horcrux would soothe the suffocating feeling that her absence left.

So at that moment, in the Salon of Rowena Ravenclaw, Tom Riddle thundered against the collapse of his immorality, and he clawed at his chest as the suffocating sensation of petals filled his throat, then unleashed his magic on the room. He grabbed one chair and threw it against the wall, then propelled books in the air, ripping their pages as if they were gospels of her love, and he tried to get it back— the anger that had fueled him for so long.

But it was gone. All it had taken to crumble the Roman Empire had been the Germanic tribes attacking, or perhaps the rise of Christianity, and Tom Riddle found himself in a similar position. Why would she have raised oceans of faith against him, why would she crumble Rome's walls like this? Could the girl not see monsters thrived in darkness?

Tom Riddle fell to his knees, much as a follower of faith in front of an altar, and they scraped against the stone floor as his mind finally catalyzed the apocalyptic fall of a sociopath. And who knew broken things never wanted to be mended in the first place?

***

Her eyes opened, and the swirl of raven feathers and moonshine dripped in a galactic pattern as she blinked away the fogginess that had covered her vision. Her lips, chapped and broken, moved in slow motions as she struggled to mutter words of panic, and then a hand raised her up quickly and placed a cup against her mouth.

Varya drank it rapidly, and the numbness in her head retracted, making space for a pounding sensation that rapped against her temples. Sound buzzed back in with resonance, and the world around her spun into existence as she collected her thoughts and pieced them together in one coherent pattern.

The rugged feeling of hospital sheets had become familiar, yet the drowsy smell of pharmaceutics and herbs did not overwhelm her senses, so she discerned this was not the hospital wing. She was in Albus Dumbledore's office.

And Newt Scamander was helping her come to her senses.

The witch choked on her drink, and the awkward man fumbled with his hands before patting her gently on her back, throwing Albus a puzzled glance, "I believe she is quite well, regardless of mishaps."

"Thank you, Newt," spoke the Professor before approaching the girl, "Good to see you back with us, Varya."

The witch glanced around the room dazed, the only thing she could feel being the remains of outrage and grief that had caused her shift. She remembered the confrontation in the Forbidden Forest, and her lips parted as a sob rattled her body.

Newt's gaze flickered from the wailing girl to Albus, and the panic in his eyes was apparent, "I take it back, I do not believe she is well."

"Thank you for your input, Newt."

Varya patted her eyes dry, then spoke with a clogged throat, "Ivy— is she truly..."

"I am afraid so," replied Dumbledore before sitting against his desk, one leg over the other, and he instructed Scamander to take a seat, "I do not mean to overwhelm you, Varya. However, it is time to discuss your future plans. As you might expect, staying at Hogwarts is no longer an option, not with this attack on the student body."

"But, I never meant to—" tried the girl, but her teacher only raised one hand to silence her.

"I do not mean you, dear," he explained graciously before pulling out a paper that had been sealed with an uncanny sigil. He handed it over to the girl, "This was found on Ivy's body, and it was addressed to you."

A small letter of ivory paper— she used delicate fingers to pull at the unknown sigil, then the contents fell to her hand, and she read the words carefully. Her mind went into a frenzy, and the queasiness of uncertainty invaded her internal medium with efficacy.

"An eye for an eye," she spoke with bitter notes, and her tone quivered as her eyes fell on the triangle that decorated the correspondence, and the girl trailed a hesitant finger over the pattern, "It was Grindelwald."

"I tried to warn you," preached Albus, and he ignored Newt's warning eyes, "But you did not listen. Gellert is a man that believes in retribution, and it was only a matter of time before he acted against your defiance. Now, the idiom he used, that is not the end to it."

"And a tooth for a tooth," Varya continued, and trepidation overwhelmed her senses as she fought back the need to vomit, "He will come back."

Newt cleared his throat ponderously, "Yes, we believe so," he announced to the room, "And so we see it best that you leave Hogwarts as soon as possible, lest he tries to attack again. We are unsure how he orchestrated this move, but the most plausible explanation would be that he has allies inside the castle."

Varya's mind immediately flew to Tom Riddle, yet she did not allow herself to entertain the thought. No, Tom was not a follower, and if there was one thing that was certain, it was that he intended to overpower the Dark Wizard, and so associating himself with his cause would pay him nothing.

But then, who? Who was twisted enough to take the life of such a pure girl as Ivy Trouche? The Knights would not overstep Tom, and the witch liked to believe that they would not harm her either— at least, not as far as Grindelwald was concerned. Not anymore.

"So," she said with dejection, "I have to leave?"

"Regretfully," replied Newt, "I could offer you a place on my travels. Tina and I have been going around to gather signatures for our ban against Experimental Breedings of fantastic beasts, and we would be glad to have you join us. Of course, I will be traveling back and forth between Hogwarts and our destinations, and it would be safer for you, as I would come back with knowledge on Grindelwald's operations."

The witch was not sure what to say. All of her life, she had desired a place that would serve as a permanent home, somewhere where she could live her teenage years without troubles. Scholomance had never been that, and it seemed as if Hogwarts would only be one stop in her journey.

A year had passed, yet it had felt as if she had lived her whole life beyond its ancient walls, and had gotten used to the breezy curriculum and the display of harmless magic. It had been a breath of fresh air, and for the first time in her life, Varya had felt that she had experienced freedom.

She had come to the school with hopes of redeeming herself, having the Petrov name stand out not as an association to Grindelwald, but as its own empire. Varya was not sure she had managed to do that. Then, her task— helping Tom Riddle— had also not been what she had expected.

Falling for him, as absolutely painful as it had been, was not something Varya would ever want to change. Perhaps, it sounded childish, but even amongst the torment, she had found moments of serenity, and meeting the Knights had been a journey of itself.

The girl glanced up from her bed, eyes cruising the men that stood before her, and she nodded, "Very well. I suppose it is the right thing to do."

"I am delighted that you think so," pronounced Newt before getting up and collecting his coat from the armchair, "I will come back to escort you by the end of the week."

She jumped at that, "By the end of the week? I do not even get to finish my exams?"

With a sullen look, the mazoologist nodded, "Unfortunately, the situation does not allow us to be patient. The sooner we leave, the better. I believe you have enough time to say goodbye if needed."

But time was not the problem. Varya had a lot of time, too much of it, really, and she clutched her necklace with a bittersweet feeling, knowing that nothing would ever be as it once was. Time— what an awful joke. It was strength she needed, and as her mind wandered to the broken boy that had wholly destroyed her heart, she queried if she would ever mend it again.

Leaving him would shatter her, yet being in his presence would corrupt her, and in the end, it was a fight of the cowardly and the weak as her heart drummed in her chest.

Newton Scamander dusted his coat off, then tipped his hat to Dumbledore before grabbing a hand fist of powder from a vase on top of the fireplace, and stepping into the green flames. With one last look towards the Eastern witch, he released it into the flickering viridescent and disappeared in a swirl of smoke.

Then, all there was left in the room was the young witch and the Transfiguration teacher, who watched her with falcon eyes as she stared at the Phoenix with unfocused eyes. When enough intervals passed, he spoke again.

"Varya," her name sounded off, almost as if he was reciting it off of a paper, "I have a task for you. While I am sure your time with Newton will teach you a great deal, I do not wish to waste your potential."

She shifted in her seat, unsure what to say, "What task?"

"You see, there is one thing that Grindelwald has always been fascinated with, and I believe that the only way to stop him— to do so truly— is to make sure he never achieves this," the Professor sat up from his desk, then walked over to his trunk and pulled out a volume of The Tales Of Beedle the Bard, "I want you to look for the other two Deathly Hallows."

Varya took the book from his hand, tracing the outline with one digit, and her skin covered in goosebumps as she realized it was one of the oldest publications, which meant that every tale was as it had been told initially, "And how do I go about with such a task?"

"As far as my research goes, each Hallow should still be in the original bloodline. Ancient objects, passed down generations of powerful wizards, and I trust you to track each of them down."

"And once I do?" inquired Varya, "Grindelwald will still have the Elder Wand."

"Once you do, I will confront Gellert myself," replied Dumbledore with finality, and in his eyes flickered something Varya knew too well— the feeling of self-hatred and conflict that pooled in her guts whenever she battled Tom.

"You loved him," she whispered breathlessly, and then it all made sense. Albus' constant refusal to face against the Dark Wizard, his in-depth knowledge of his habits and complexity of his mind, and how he always knew his next step.

Dumbledore did not answer directly, yet the way his face moved, almost as if glossed over by reminiscence, was enough of a confirmation. He cleared his throat, then peaked at the girl as she held the book tightly in her hands, "Sometimes, we must stand against those we once cared for, as we are the only ones that can hold them accountable for their wrongdoings."

Her mind traveled to Tom, the serpent boy who had undoubtedly captured her love wholeheartedly, and she wondered if it would come easy to her. Was Tom to indulge in his darkness and fall prey to his own demons, would she be the one to fight against his tyranny? Would her soul be able to handle such torment?

With a soft voice, the girl let words tumble from her lips, "Did you ever regret it?" she questioned the sorcerer, "Did you hate yourself for caring for him despite his troubled mind?"

"No, I did not fault myself for caring for him," answered Albus, hands clasped behind his back as his pupils traveled to the burning flames that danced in the fireplace, "But I did wonder what would have come of him, had I not abandoned him. Loving such twisted people, it becomes their only source of hope, and sometimes they fear that more than anything else in the world. But when it leaves? That is when they truly suffocate, and everything collapses in on itself."

Varya played with the pages of the volume, mind-twisting as she wondered how to say her goodbyes. Yet, there would be no easy way of doing it, and the pain of leaving those she cared for behind and starting this new venture on her own would shatter her. Alas, her time at Hogwarts had finally ended.

But her journey had just begun, and she knew that no matter where she ended up, her path would always collide with Tom Riddle.


	57. chapter fifty-five

THE FUNERAL HAD BEEN ODD.

They had brought her a silver coffin, and had even placed emerald gemstones along the edges and in intricate ornaments on the top, designing some peculiar serpent form that did not truly fit Ivy Trouche. It was an open-casket ceremony, and they placed her in a small chapel down in Hogdsemade, because Hogwarts did not have a proper burial ground.

Her parents had come fastly, and they had arranged the school ceremony for her friends to say goodbye before they would take the body back to Yorkshire and have a proper funeral for her close family. Varya felt queasiness spread through her whole being at the thought of the Trouche family having to travel with the deceased body of their only daughter.

Ivy's mother was a wonderful woman, regardless of her fine lines near her eyebrows that had accumulated from one too many stern frowns, and she had light hair that fell in soft waves just like her daughter. Her father was an authoritative man, with a small beard and blazing eyes, and he marched around stiffly as his eyes darted around the little chapel, clearly deeming it below his daughter's worth.

Even so, he held his wife affectionately as she wept over their child's casket, grasping at the edge as she sunk to her knees and lowered her head until it touched the edge of the coffin. She wailed Ivy's name in the stone-built chamber, and it echoed through every attendees' soul— the cry of a mother that was burying her only child.

Varya stood in the back, hands trembling as she fought back unphantomable anxiety, and through her ears, the mother's cry played on repeat, reminding her that her decisions had killed one of her closest friends. Her black dress fell around her figure like an unfitting pillowcase, and her skin had turned gray from lack of sleep and malnourishment. The guilt was devouring her from inside out, and there was an abyss of desolation in her stomach that she could not entirely fill.

The only other person in the room that seemed to be as devastated as Varya was Della Beauchamp, who also stood near one of the walls, gripping on a chair until her knuckles turned white, and her skin had blanched as she stared at Ivy's mother crying. Felix was by her side, and they seemed to have rekindled their friendship in a moment of weakness, although Varya could tell from the affectionate expression on his face that he still cared for the Beauchamp girl.

The Eastern witch strived to move her feet across the floor and get closer to the basket, yet something stopped her from doing so, and instead, she sat down on one of the church's benches in the back, where Renold Rosier stood in an utterly unkempt state.

A terrifying look glossed over his eyes, and his hair was sticking out in odd directions as he flung his head back to take another sip from his alcohol flask. Then Ren set it aside, and his hand immediately flew to absentmindedly press against the skin where his previous injury had been. And Varya knew— she knew he was still in pain, mentally and physically, and yet he was trying to appear as collected as possible.

"I take it you are as squeamish at funerals as I," stated the girl, yet her voice was so weak it was barely audible. Ren turned his face halfway, and glanced at her from the corner of his eyes.

"Brings back bad memories," he murmured, then downed some more of his drink. His gaze fell on Ivy's mother, who was only now letting go of the casket, "No mother should have to bury their daughter."

There was something oddly specific in his voice— the way it cracked ever so slightly as his timbre switched to a higher pitch. Then, he cleared his throat and turned his face away, pretending to be interested in the Christian paintings that stood on the walls.

"Are you religious?" he asked suddenly, "I am not. I believe that ceremonies such as this one, the pretense of sending your loved ones to some higher ground— they have nothing to do with pleasing any God; they are only a way that we settle our ache from losing someone by lying to ourselves and making up some fantasy land. All so that we can pretend they are not truly gone, and that we might see them again when the time comes. Bullshit, I say. I do not believe in God."

Petrov inclined her head, then sighed deeply, "I do," she admitted, "In some way, at least. I believe that magic came from Hell, and with so many demons wandering around, I have to. I know sigils that have been passed down from Satan's lore itself, and so if I trust in the existence of evil, I must also believe in good, right?"

"So you truly think there is a God?" chuckled the boy bitterly, "Well, then, I must have done something wrong for him to thunder down on me as such."

"Lack of faith would be enough," pronounced the girl— an attempt at a jest, yet it fell flat as she could not bring herself to mask her suffering with gaiety, "And yes, I do. But make no mistake— He is not the divinity our scriptures have made him be, and each religion is an interpretation of the needs we have as a race. Regardless, no ruler has ever only been truly good, so why should God be?"

Rosier said nothing else, only glanced around the room until he spotted the door to the side opening, and in stepped Icarus Lestrange and Maxwell Nott, both dressed in dark black suits, and their ties so tightly knotted that they pressed against their necks properly. None of them had enjoyed Ivy Trouche's company much, and to say they wept for her would be an enormous lie, yet paying respects was the right thing to do.

Both boys stumbled around ineptly, unsure what to tell the parents— would they lie and say they thought highly of their daughter? And if Ivy's father asked them any specific questions, what fables would they spin from their needle of deceitfulness?

Thankfully, serpent tongued boy and fellow Slytherin prefect, Tom Riddle, chose that moment to walk in and save the two from becoming a blubbering mess in front of the funeral guests. He promptly bee-lined to the parents, introducing himself gallantly. Varya watched him from the sidelines, admiring the way the black suit jacket encompassed his shoulders ever-so-perfectly, and his hair stayed neatly gelled in soft waves. His dark button-up was paired with an emerald tie, and his prefect badge was gently pinned to it, shinning in the candlelight.

He shook their hands softly, then bowed his head as a sign of respect, eyes darting to the casket. Then, a well-designed mask of grief seemed to fall over his place, and had Varya not known his utter hatred for the Golden Girl, she would have believed it to be true.

"He is quite impressive, is he not?" snorted Rosier, his words slurred as the alcohol finally started poisoning his thoughts, "Such a facade, a mirage of an undoubtfully perfect boy. The jokes write themselves."

"You might want to quite down, lest he hears you."

"Part of him knows, I think, that I am the least loyal in his little brigade," admitted the deserter Knight, "Do not get me wrong, I do look up to him greatly. He is the epitome of everything my family has valued for generations, and to be completely honest; I still have some of those values in my core. Riddle is brilliant, truly, and under his command, we will achieve many things. But there are moments, such as this one, when I wonder if it is all worth it."

"Selling your soul to a demon?" replied Varya caustically.

Ren chuckled, "Precisely," he smirked knowingly, "Is power really worth it? Heavy is the head that wears the crown, they say, and being in such a position surely has its downsides. The games, the darkness, the deceit— it gets tiring. Sometimes, all I want to do is be like those brainless classmates of ours, and only care about the next person I am going to shag or something—"

"Ren!" the girl gasped, appalled at his lack of manners.

"Oh, please. Stop acting so prim and proper, as if you have not slept with two of us already. Accepting the reality of your sexual desires is the first step to owning yourself— let go of the stigmas that society has placed against basic human needs in an attempt to shame us into submission and criticize us."

Varya shook her head, yet the ghost of a smile stayed on her lips, and she admired Ren's carelessness, the way he lived his life as if it were about to end tomorrow. As reckless as he was, the boy was extremely wise for his age, even if it would not appear as such at first glance. He never studied, never practiced, and always played around during class— yet, when it came down to it, he took his exams seriously and managed to stay part of the SlugClub.

With a bitter feeling in her chest, the witch realized she would miss him and his endless chatter. Her mind stayed on the day they had first interacted properly, in the Astronomy Tower during their shared class. Ren had told her about the SlugClub, and ever since, he had always been by her side silently. Perhaps, he had been the first Knight to offer her warmth, even before Icarus, and for that, he would always have a special place in her heart.

The girl glanced at her fingers, pulling at the dead skin around her nails with dread, and she bit on her lip anxiously before clearing her throat, "I am, uh— I am leaving by the end of the week."

Rosier snapped his eyes to her, alert and astonished, "What do you mean you are leaving? Why?"

"The attack on Ivy," Varya whispered, eyes darting around the room, "It was orchestrated by Grindelwald. Dumbledore believes that he is still out for blood, or at least trying to balance the scales after we killed some of his acolytes, and as long as I am here, people are not safe."

"So instead of confronting Grindelwald like everyone expects him to, he lets you take the blame and ships you off," the boy scoffed, shaking his head in annoyance, "I always thought him to be brilliant, but Riddle is right in saying he has a weak character. He pretends to be so righteous, then easily dismisses responsibility when he knows nobody else can do it."

"He will confront him," assured Varya, "Just not right now. He has other things to do first."

"Yeah, other things," answered Ren bitterly, "Meanwhile, people die because he will not take action."

"Ivy's death is on me, nobody else," Varya's voice shook, and she brought her fingers to her mouth, chewing on her nails as her eyes darted back to the coffin. She had not seen the corpse yet, too scared to face reality.

Renold gave her a blank stare, then swung his flask again, letting the bitter drink burn down the truth from his throat— Varya could not know that it had been Della that had caused Ivy's death; otherwise, things would go south very fast. Even with his need to protect her, the boy knew the news would only break the girl. So, instead, he said something else.

"We are all to blame," he smacked his lips to dissipate the taste of whiskey, "It is a domino effect, really, and pinning it on one person only will not justify what has happened. It is on Tom for taking you with him to Albania, it is on me for not telling you about your Obscurus earlier, it is on you for not leaving, it is on Dumbledore for not taking action earlier, and it is on Ivy for always involving herself in stuff she should never have been part of."

It should have been comforting, but it was not. Even so, Varya gave him a forced smile, then proceeded to play with her hair, hands restless, and mind alert. Tom had finally bid goodbye to the Trouche couple, and was now standing with Lestrange and Nott on the sides, murmuring something that was probably not of sane quality.

Then, his gaze shifted around the room, and pavonated irises settled on the Eastern witch's figure, judicious and stoic. Tom straightened himself up when Varya gazed back at him, and he pulled at his tie, then fumbled with it anxiously. He had not talked to the girl much since he had attempted to use the curse on her, and there was a longing feeling that had been residing in his chest for the past few days.

Good, he thought, as it should be. After all, he had to use the agony to recreate himself, to fulfill the task he had been destined to do as the heir of Salazar Slytherin, and regardless of any nuance of compassion he might have developed for the girl, Tom had to ignore the drumming in his heart whenever she looked at him with such softness, as if he was made of moonshine and the early frost of spring mornings.

Yet, there he was, standing still in the midst of a funeral, only able to glance at her, with his hands jittering in his pockets as he tried to contain himself from walking up to her and hearing her voice. It was so absolutely disgusting that a man as he had been reduced to a mess of juxtapositions in regards to a woman he undoubtedly cared for.

It clashed against his arrogance, and he found that he was not sure which part screamed louder— his selfishness as it claimed the witch as his own, marking her down as something he rightfully deserved and possessed, or the absolutely agonizing misery that told him she would never care for him, not when he belonged to the world of the unearthly, gruesomeness, and sinfulness.

Varya was the one that averted her eyes first, feeling her pulse ram against her skin, and she pressed a cold finger on her wrist, counting the beats and enlarging her eyes when she discerned just how fast her heart truly beat for the boy.

"Have you told him?" inquired Rosier as he glanced at his leader.

The witch shook her head, "No," she answered in a terrible whisper, "I have been thinking about whether I can even face him after what he did. How terrible must it be that we have tried to kill each other repeatedly, yet I find that nobody quite fits me as he does? Is that not odd?"

"Well, there was nothing normal, nor sane, to begin with when it came to the two of you. He is a sociopath with murderous tendencies, quite literally a serial killer, and you are an Obscurial with anger management issues. You have tried to destroy the school and annihilate all of us at least once."

Varya sighed deeply, then rolled her eyes at the remark, "Even so, I am not sure how to talk to him," she continued, "I am not sure he will care that I will go."

"He will; believe me," answered Rosier, "He will not show it. Perhaps, he will even act as if he is indifferent to it, but we have all been bracing ourselves for Riddle to break once you leave. None of us expected it to be this soon, of course."

"If you say so."

"I do not know who is more oblivious to his feelings— you or him," snorted the boy, "Anyhow, I believe there is someone else you should talk to first."

When Varya raised a confused eyebrow, Ren grabbed her head and spun it to face the Knights, then pointed to Icarus Lestrange, who was talking to Nott over a glass of red wine. The girl pursed her lips, and of course— how could she have forgotten? The boy had given her everything, and her disappearance would surely rattle him.

The witch excused herself, then slowly got up from the bench and made her way down the corridor until she reached the group of three men. Icarus immediately brightened at the fight of her and tipped his head courteously, Nott gave her a nod of acknowledgment, and Tom stared at her without saying anything.

"Hello," she greeted them, specifically avoiding to look at Riddle, who had crossed his arm in defiance. The girl turned to Lestrange, not even facing Tom's direction, yet the side that was near him buzzed with electricity at his proximity, "Icarus, may I speak with you?"

"Of course, darling," he said cheekily, then smiled at her openly. Tom's eyes darted between the two, and he stuffed his clenched fists in the pockets of his suit, trying to hide away the apparent sign of irritation.

"In private, please?" continued Varya, and then her past lover nodded and handed his cup of liquid to Maxwell, who sniffed it before scrunching his nose— it was no expensive liquor.

Varya pivoted on her heels, then turned around to leave the church, her heels clicking against the stone as Icarus walked by her side, and she could feel Riddle's burning stare as she left. It took everything in her to not turn around and face him, either to hex his eyes out or kiss him madly.

Once they opened the door to the chapel, they stepped outside to the Main Entrance, where a small roof barely shielded them from the pouring droplets as they fell from granite and onto the cold fauna, cascading like a curtain of misery as the gloomy weather matched the current circumstances.

"What is it, love?" asked the boy with his sophisticated accent, and Varya took a moment to analyze him. Icarus Lestrange had been an odd development in a situation she had never expected, and their relationship had been tumultuous at best.

The first time they had met, he had disregarded her as an opponent during a dueling class, and had called her a coward for hiding away from Grindelwald. Then, he had continued pestering and teasing her for weeks, somewhere between banter and playful flirting that was so characteristically for their age. Eventually, the boy had become smitten with her, and even though she had never returned his love, he had cared for her wholeheartedly.

And perhaps Varya had not loved him, but that did not mean there had not been a connection between them. In her own way, she had cared for Icarus deeply, and although the timing of their relationship had not been right, he would always be a person of importance to her— the witch's first boyfriend, her first lover, the only man that had ever confessed to loving her.

There was such purity in the way he glanced at her, with suede eyes that carried the fever of every apollo in the constellations of the night sky, and a devotion that she could never accept— she was not worthy of his love, not after everything she had done— so much so that it was easy to forget who the boy really was.

Icarus, just like the rest of the Knights, was a ruthless killer— he had always been Tom's preferred general, a master of dueling and deceit, yet he had only ever shown his gentle side to the girl. Even during their confrontation in the Forbidden Forest, Icarus had almost sacrificed himself to save Nott, and that was proof of loyalty unlike any other. But that was Lestrange— every fighter had a heightened sense of commitment, and the boy would die in battle before letting anyone destroy his comrades.

"I have to leave Hogwarts," confessed Varya, and then she added, "By the end of this week. And I wanted you to hear it from me, because I think you deserve that after everything I have put you through."

The blues that fell on his features was evident, and Icarus blinked fastly as he shifted on his legs, eyes darting to the sky and then back at her face. There was a beat of silence where the boy attempted to collect his thoughts, and then he simply reached out to touch the side of her face. A rueful smile graced his features, and his thumb caressed her cheek as he had always done during their months of dating.

"I was expecting it, especially after everything that happened," he confessed, "Of course, not this fast, but do you want to hear the truth, Varya? I believe leaving Hogwarts is, for now, the best thing you could do for yourself. You would be safer under Dumbledore's watch, and that is what matters most, although my heart does break when I realize I will not see you around anymore."

"Maybe I will come back," the girl said weakly, although they both knew it would not happen any time soon, if at all.

"Maybe," Icarus reassured her, "And perhaps things will be better by then."

They stood there for a few seconds, staring at each other as if it were the last time they would catch a glimpse of their faces, as if that moment in time was ripped from existence itself— some sort of niche they had both created, were their feelings intertwined and spiraled into a bouquet of flowers that only ever bloomed with tenderness, and the girl remembered the black roses he had given her once. And things had been simpler then; they had been easy.

Now, a universe of catastrophe awaited them, and in their funeral clothes, the two past lovers embraced each other eagerly, Varya's hands clutching on his suit with quivering hands, sobbing into his shoulder as he played with her hair softly and held her tightly, whispering words of comfort into her locks before placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.

His love had been sincere regardless of her beliefs, and although superficial at first, it had developed into something more. Even after their unfortunate separation, Icarus had loved her solely, and it was that reason that he had decided to let her go— find her happiness, even if it was with Tom Riddle.

"I will see you again," the boy said, and how peculiar it was for him to finally be the one she clung to, the one she relied on for her stability. Alas, it was too late, and their story had ended abruptly.

Icarus was thankful, nevertheless, that he had been able to love her as such, and her presence had awakened something in him that he had never thought possible. Where had the reckless, heedless Lestrange heir gone, and who was the caring man that had replaced him? Indeed, time and affection had bloomed change in his soul, and while he was still a merciless duelist with a taste for adventure, it balanced out with his newfound mellowness.

The girl nodded weakly at his words, and she could only hope they were, in fact, true. Yet, where would they ever meet? She was to leave Hogwarts, and perhaps even England, and if the witch were ever to come back, nothing would be the same. Change would have rooted its vines deeply in their soil, and time would only tell what would come of the Knights.

Someone cleared their throat from behind, and Varya looked over Icarus' shoulder to meet Tom Riddle's cold eyes. She quickly patted her face dry, then took a step back and turned away not to let the boy see her rheumy eyes and cherry nose.

Lestrange cleared his throat awkwardly, glancing at Tom as he continued to stare at Varya with determination, "I will leave you to it."

With that, he went inside, and the two Slytherins stood outside the chapel— Varya avoiding his eyes and Riddle contemplating what to say. Then, he pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket, and handed it to the girl to wipe her face.

"Thank you," she said shyly, then pressed the soft material against her apricot cheeks and wet eyelashes, dragging softly at her skin. She made to hand it back, but Tom shook his head vigorously.

"Keep it," he replied, voice apathetic, and he seemed completely disinterested in her presence, yet there was something about his body language that divulged that fallacy.

Varya nodded, then gently stuffed it in a small purse that she had been carrying, and crossed her arms as she took in the sight before her. Tom seemed to be out of sorts, almost as if something was on his mind, and a permanent crease had nested on his forehead as he continued to watch her with azure eyes.

"You are leaving?"

Her eyelids moved alertly as she blinked away the surprise in them. She was not sure if her imagination was playing tricks on her yet again, that damned hopefulness that kept her from detaching herself from Tom Riddle, but Varya could have sworn that his voice had fluctuated. What it meant mattered less, as the idea of him feeling something at her departure, good or bad, was astonishing.

She scoffed, then onyx eyes flew to the violaceus yonder, where stars had started specking the horizon, and the twilight hour rang vivaciously as night approached, "For someone who is so against me eavesdropping, you sure do enjoy listening in on my conversations."

Tom sneered, then tilted his head, "That is because you do not do it properly— you always make your presence felt, whereas I hide away in the shadows and only make my intentions visible if I so desire. You have much to learn."

"Always so condescending, are you not?" the girl drew on, and an unimpressed twinkle settled over her features. With gentle hands, she threw her locks over her shoulder, and her movement caught the boy's attention, who suddenly became hyperaware of her perfume and the way it made his head spin.

"So, are you leaving?" he queried again, and there was even more aggravation in his voice now, almost as if asking such a thing hurt his mind.

Truthfully, it did in some ways. As much as he had planned to detach himself from Varya, he had not expected the mere news of her departure to have his body react like this. His heart had been beating with verve, and he felt the need to clutch it and susurrate some sort of calming words, as it felt as if it would implode in its cavity— a mess of myocardium and blood. Tom's hands had been polished in an uncharacteristic nervous sweat, and oh, how he hated the way his body betrayed his mind by following the heart.

Then, there was this voidness that had fashioned in his soul, and although it did resemble the wrath that had fueled his core for so many years, it was different. The note it played was somber, melancholic, and he tried to wave away its melody, finding that it did not suit his being. Regardless, it clung to his partiture, and now he found his heart humming it erratically.

The witch pursed her lips, and ignored the way her fingers twitched by her side as she watched one lonesome curl fall in his eye. She reminded herself that he was not hers, and she was not his, and there was no reason to touch each other.

"Yes," her chin lowered as she glanced at the ground to hide the sadness, "In a few days."

It sounded robotic, and the phrase had been repeated so many times that it had engraved itself in her permanent vocabulary, almost like a premonition of fatality and heartbreak, and if it hurt like this now, how suffocating would it be when her sand clepsydra ran out on her?

Tom shifted in his spot, hands clasped behind his back, and when he parted his lips to say something, he found himself unable to do so. His breath hitched as he took in her sincere gaze, the way she looked at him as if he was the most righteous person there was, some salvation to her doom, and he felt that his tie was suddenly too tight on his neck.

The news should have thrilled him senseless, should have awakened some sort of rejuvenation in his being, yet it all felt glacial as he stared at her heated face, and the way her eyebrows fell as the girl avoided his cold stare, almost as if it would have destroyed her to see his reaction. Her lower lip quivered, and she dug her nails in her palm to hold back the tears that were so obvious to him.

He wondered when he had mastered her expressions, when he had learned every twitch and tic of her body and the meaning behind them, almost as if his existence had come with a dictionary of understanding Varya Petrov.

Perhaps, it was that their souls had both been made from the same nebula, and galactic dust had settled in their existence and connected them across the universe and life itself, almost as if they were stars that orbited around each other only— the senseless pull of a connection like theirs.

"I wish you a safe journey," he answered eventually, and he felt cold, empty as if there was so much more to say, yet something blocked the connection between his mind and soul. Tom recognized her disappointment immediately, and he noticed how she played with the edged of her sleeves, cracking her fingers as she always did when she was nervous and tried to distract herself.

And then she bit the inside of her cheek, a gesture she had acquired from him, and how odd it was that those who felt as they did imitated each other's body language, almost as if they had left a part of their soul with another.

He made to turn, not wanting to be suffocated by her fallen look any longer, but he felt her small hand grab his arm, and then she pulled him back and grabbed his chin to look at her. The agony in Varya's eyes had him petrified for a second, and for a boy that believed he was above all law and order, an epitome of perfection, he undoubtedly felt faulty right there.

"Do not dare," she croaked out, "Do not dare walk away from me as if I mean nothing to you, Riddle! Please, stop acting as if everything was just some game that I fell for."

"And if it was?" Tom whispered, and his eyes focused on her with a softness he despised himself for.

She shook her head, hand clinging to his black button-up as she desperately tried to collect herself, "I do not believe that."

He was not sure what to do— he had never felt so grotesque for making a woman cry, and there had been plenty of tears shed from the multiple girls he had rejected over the years. But this? This burned him as if Hell Fire had metastasized in his soul, and he tried to push it away, to pretend there was nothing more than irritation at her make-up staining the collar of his shirt, yet when her head fell in the crook of his neck, everything buzzed into motion.

Tom did not move. He did not hug her, nor did he hold her as Icarus did— it was best that the girl believed he was an emotionless python, and perhaps then Varya would no longer love him, and he would finally be set free from the chains she had placed around his hands. Yet, some part of him could not imagine a reality where he did not have her, or where she belonged to someone else. Even seeing her with Icarus had made his blood boil, and Riddle knew that her absence would drive him mad.

And that was what he needed. That was what he wanted. _Right_?

"Tom," the girl tried again, pained by his aloof eyes, as if his mind had wandered somewhere else entirely, but Della chose that moment to step outside and look for Varya.

Beauchamp's eyes met Tom's, and for a second, she gasped at their intensity, trepidation making her shake like an autumn leaf in the harsh wind, so close to snapping off and falling to the ground. The absolute fire in his irises, the way the marine flickered with scarlet— how had she never seen him to be such a monster before?

Varya pushed herself away from the boy, and Riddle fought back the need to pull her back in. Instead, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and gave the muggle-born witch a stern look that reminded her she was to speak nothing of their arrangement, then walked inside the chapel to find his acolytes.

The Slavic girl wrapped her arms around herself, then placed a hand around her mouth and sobbed into it, body shaking visibly as the only boy she had ever loved walked away from her yet again, and she wondered if anything would ever hurt her more. Because this— this was utterly crushing, and her soul twisted with absolute ache as his mahogany scent left the perimeter.

"Are you quite all right?" questioned Della shyly, and she made to reach out and touch her friend, yet her hand wavered over Varya's shoulder.

Beauchamp gulped as she stared at her fingers, and her body shook as she took in the sanguine liquid they were covered in. Bloody, murderous, deceitful— her soul had been stained by impurity, and in the end, she had been a pawn in an endless game of twisted chess, where both kings battled over one queen.

The witch shook her head, then clasped her hands behind her back, biting back the bile that rose to her mouth, and she tried her best to appear as sane as possible, yet her mind had been broken by a Dark Wizard, and now, Tom Riddle was picking up the pieces and smashing them together brutally as he tried to make sense of the puzzle.

"Yes," lied Varya, then turned to face her friend who seemed just as troubled as her, "I am just glad we are talking again. I do not think I could have gone through this alone."

"Of course," Della feigned a smile, and her eyes had lost their effervescent twinkle, almost as if the brightest star had finally imploded and burned before its fuel consumed itself, "I only wish you did not have to leave so soon. But I am sure you will learn more about being a magizoologist with Newt than at Hogwarts. Especially after Professor Kettleburn got suspended after that disastrous play."

Tactunity fell over them as the reality of it hit them— Ivy had been the one to cause a terrible commotion during that night, and now her body was getting cold in a casket only twenty feet away from them. Both girls averted their eyes as they tried to make sense of how life had been so cruel, each with their own guilt and their own fault in their friend's death.

"Have you..." began Della, "Have you seen her?"

Varya gulped harshly, "I could not bring myself to."

"They are closing the casket soon; this might be your last chance to say goodbye."

The Eastern witch felt herself drown in shame, and with reluctance, she grabbed Della's extended hand, and both walked back inside, the door closing shut behind them. The carpet that stood between them and the coffin seemed never to end, and even from this distance, Varya could spot part of Ivy's features over the edge.

With trembling legs, both girls started to make their way down, clinging to each other as they felt the eyes of everyone in the room settle on them. Then, Felix came from behind and rested a protective hand over each girl, trying to shield them from the ravenous stares.

"You will be fine," he encouraged them, and although he could not understand the internal turmoil they both felt, he was still as reassuring as always. And how odd it was, that he was the only one whose soul remained untarnished.

It was almost comical how the price for the Knights' slight flicker of morality in their souls had cost the trio their youth, their joviality, almost as if fate had required a balance to be struck, an exchange of light and darkness.

Eventually, the trio made its way to the front, and Varya clung to Felix's figure as she stared at Ivy's face. She had expected her to be disfigured, broken from the impact of her fall, with parts of her skull sunken in and her face beaten up. Regardless, whoever had fixed her had done a respectable job, and besides the obviously dehydrated lips and sunken cheeks, the Golden Girl shined as she always had— with beauty and charm.

"Leave it to her to be breathtaking even in death," breathed Della out, yet her mind only carried one image— her friend's broken figure as it stood at the bottom of the Astronomy Tower. And that was how Ivy Trouche appeared in her nightmares as well, blood oozing from her shattered head, spine collapsed, and legs twisted.

The Eastern witch did not quite feel the same. Sure enough, Ivy was still beautiful, yet without the sunbeams in her smile, and her eyes glowing like two precious jewels, she was not what she had once been. She was dead. Ivy was dead.

No make-up or elegant service could change that, and Varya clutched her necklace as she continued to stare at the body, numbness spreading through everything. Her roommate, the one she had seen daily for almost a year, had been killed due to her stubbornness and selfishness, and nothing would ever change the weight that Varya now carried.

They had dressed her in a viridescent silky dress, something that did not blend with her warm natural tones, and with her skin paler and thinner, her purple veins stood out even more on her body, contrasting with the spectral color of her garments. Her hair had been curled and placed neatly around her face, which was so different than how Ivy usually wore it— soft beach weaves that were always tousled by her endless Quidditch practice.

The Slytherin team had paid their homage to her during the last game, even though they had not qualified for the finals. All of her teammates had flown around the stadium as one last chant for the Golden Girl had sounded through the bleachers, and every House had joined in regardless of their ties with the serpent wearing students. It had been a moment of unity in unfortunate circumstances, and Varya wondered if anyone realized how absolutely painful it had been.

Ravenclaw had won the final this year, and Felix Parkin had been the first Eagle Captain to win the title in years, although celebrations had not happened due to the tragic events. And when they had interviewed him for the Daily Prophet, Felix had made sure to mention Ivy Trouche's name as the only adversary he had ever feared.

Even Abraxas Malfoy, as opposed as he had always been to the female Slytherin prefect, had flown around the stadium with a solemn look on his face, and the rest of the Knights had stood in the bleachers dressed in green and eyes downcasted. Tom had also attended, much to Varya's surprise, although the girl knew that he felt nothing at the prefect's death.

"Varya," whispered Felix from the side, and only then did the girl realize that she had been gripping Ivy's cold hand for the past few minutes, "They have to close the casket."

"Oh, of course," the Eastern witch stumbled backward, "I apologize."

Ivy's mother gave her a mournful smile, "Do not fret, child. I appreciate seeing that people cared for her so much."

Petrov forced a smile, then bid the parents farewell, and quickly rushed to the side of the chapel, where Della and Felix had retracted. Her heart felt heavy, and she knew there would be no peace in her mind until she could avenge her friend's death.


	58. final chapter

THE GREAT HALL was soundless, and few dared snigger and waltz around as they would habitually. Almost all were dressed in black, and Varya let her eyes trail the room with some aversion— most had not even known Ivy, yet they paraded themselves around with a grief-stricken expression as if they had been the ones that had lost a beloved friend. It was all a pretense, a vanity of tenderness to plead for attention and consolation, yet none would lose sleep over her death.

"Stop gripping your fork so tightly," muttered Felix from beside her as he grabbed her hand and unclenched her fingers from her utensil, "You look as if you are about to stab someone."

Varya sighed and let her body loosen, although the tautness never quite seemed to fade the way, and she watched from the Ravenclaw table as Headmaster Dippet discussed something with Elladora Selwyn. Then, he pulled out a badge from his pocket and handed it to the girl.

The Eastern witch stabbed her steak, earning a surprised yelp from Parkin, "Holy marbles, you scared me!"

"He made Elladora a prefect," Varya remarked bitterly, nodding to where her roommate accepted the badge. She had the decency to appear unsure, at least, almost as if she had not waited for her moment to outshine Ivy for so long.

Felix followed her gaze, then sighed, "I dislike that red-haired throat-slashing siren as much as everyone else, but you cannot blame her for that. They had to fill in the position, and with you leaving Hogwarts, Elladora was the obvious choice."

That was a reasonable way to address the issue, yet Varya still felt cold. It should not have been done so soon, not when Ivy's body had just been carried out of Hogsmeade and was not even six feet underground. It felt premature, almost as if some part of her could return and retake her rightful place.

Even so, Felix's words rang with truth— regardless of Selwyn's previous intentions, the witch was not at fault for what had happened, and if anyone could fill in Ivy's shoes, it would be the tornado of fire and vexation that was Elladora Selwyn.

The Headmaster rose to his feet, then cleared his throat as he gazed over the remaining body of Hogwarts students, then spoke in a low timbre, "With recent events, it is hard to believe that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will ever stand as it once has— a safe place for ingenious minds of all backgrounds and one of the few schools that have always had their arms open to any sort of ancestry and magic."

Varya saw Della tense over the table, and she almost scoffed at the obliviousness of their Headmaster, who had never believed that any Hogwarts student could mean harm. And how wrong he had been.

"At the beginning of this week, the Ministry had decided to close our school until further notice," whispers and shouts of astonishment passed through the crowds, yet Dippet silenced them with the wave of his hand, "However, one student has stood bravely and confronted the terror that had plagued our sacred grounds, and has collaborated with Professor Dumbledore to elucidate the mystery surrounding Ivy Trouche's death and the attack on the Great Hall. It has been revealed that multiple dark creatures had been migrating West in the past few months, and apparently, one had broken in and ran rampant against our students."

A scoff fell past Varya's lips, and she shook her head in disapproval at the pitiful cover-up. Ivy's parents would never know the real beast that had killed their daughter, and Grindelwald's name would not be tarnished in the public eye, yet again out of fear of retribution.

"With that being said, it is my pleasure to award a Special Award for Services to the School to none other than one of the greatest minds that Hogwarts has produced— Tom Riddle."

Varya chewed on her steak to bite down the aggravation that crawled up her throat as the Hall erupted in cheers for the fraud that Tom Riddle was. She let her eyes trace his figure as he walked gallantly to the front of the tables and accepted the trophy, shaking the hands of each Professor as they congratulated him for something he did not deserve.

Regardless of the fact that he had coordinated his Knights, Tom had not done much to stop her Obscurus and had instead relied on communal magic to prevent the disaster. Yet here he was, accumulating the laudations by himself, almost as if he had acted alone.

The rest of the Knights did not seem bothered. As a matter of fact, they all applauded with distasteful smiles on their faces, and something churned in Varya's abdomen at the weird mixture of sensations— on the one hand, she cared about all of them despite the constant fire games they had all engaged in; on the other hand, she knew they would always be wicked little creatures that fed on the despair of others.

The seven devils that had tormented the school for so long and would continue to do so, the cruel and misleading elite clique that had drowned themselves in extravagance and wealth to hide their true macabre inclinations, and had gloved their hands in fine silk to plunge their bloodied hands into darkness. They were, to the untrained eye, the perfect representation of aristocracy and intellectualism, cultivated minds that had been trained to perform at fast capacities, the crème de la crème.

But to Varya, they had shown their true intentions— sociopaths, murderers, poisoners, schemers. There was nothing refined about the harsh edges of their souls, and something so foul had been packaged in such a superb wrapping paper. The phrase "do not judge a book by its cover" had attained a completely different meaning.

Almost as if they had felt someone watching them, they all turned their heads to face her simultaneously, yet the girl refused to cower under their intimidating gazes. And with seven pairs of monstrous eyes on her, Varya stood proudly, her chin held high as she hoisted an eyebrow to ridicule their gawking, and Avery snickered before sending her a kiss and telling everyone to resume their chatting.

It was only when the clock struck the twentieth hour that Varya stood up from the table, wishing Felix and Della a restful sleep, and headed to leave the Great Hall. She stepped into the open hallways, then made her way down and to the Dungeons, when she felt a hand on her forearm.

Varya twisted around to meet the eyes of Tom Riddle, and he towered over her, arrogant all-knowing look on his face as he held the trophy lazily by his side, and lowered his chin until his eyes were on the same level as hers.

"What?" she asked with irritation lacing her timbre, yet her breath hitched as he smirked at her recalcitrance.

"I had forgotten how wonderful you look when you defy me," he spoke slowly, then straightened up and tilted his head, almost as if he was trying to figure her out.

Varya felt her face heat up, then half-turned it away from him, unsure what to make of his compliment, "What do you want?"

"When do you leave?" he inquired, then extended his elbow to her. She raised an eyebrow but accepted his offer only to feel somewhat closer to him, and they strode down the hallways together.

"Tomorrow after Felix's graduation ceremony," she stated truthfully, "He got scouted by some wonderful Quidditch team, so he leaves as soon as he gets his diploma, and I want to bid my farewell properly."

Tom answered nothing to that and tried to dismiss the rage that grew inside him as she mentioned another man, yet found that the flame burned brightly, and he pursed his lips in discontent.

He was not sure what else to say or how to explain the agony that was devouring his insides, almost as if her abandonment had petrified him beyond recognition, and he dreaded the moment the witch would walk out of the castle. Riddle struggled to piece together his thoughts, to form a sentence that would explain why he had done what he had done, yet he lacked such words in his vocabulary. Instead, he stayed silent, and he reprimanded himself by denying the one thing that would soothe the ache that had built inside for years— her devotion and love.

They reached the Slytherin Common Room, and then cruised to the stairs that led to each of their dormitories, the silence a burden on their shoulders. Varya sighed profoundly and glanced at Tom as he continued to regard her with dispute in his eyes.

"Is there anything you wish to tell me before I leave?"

Yes, there were many things the boy should have confessed, yet he could not bring himself to do so. Not now, when his future was bleak with failure, and he had to pick himself off of the ground before allowing himself any sort of warmth.

"As I have said before," he began, voice detached as he maintained an impassive face, "I wish you a safe journey."

The girl sighed deeply, then nodded her head slowly, disappointment obvious in her watering eyes, and her heart broke as she spent the last few minutes in the presence of the man she had grown to love unlike any other.

He was breathtaking, the finest piece of art in a collection of renowned canvases, and he stood against the backdrop of Slytherian green with the utter power that only the heir of Salazar would have. His veins glowed of emerald against his pale skin, almost as if his blood was made of the House's essence, the poison of a serpent.

Moreover, he was vicious beyond reason, and that was the exact trait that made Tom Riddle such an incomprehensible being— the right mixture of mortal Adonis' beauty and immortal Hades' furor, almost as if he had seized what made them both efficacious, and had fashioned himself to be a demigod that strove to escape death much as the Greeks had.

"Very well, Tom," she responded bitterly, then glanced at him one last time before pivoting on her feet and going up her stairs, hand gripping the railing to prevent her knees from collapsing underneath her weight.

Riddle observed her disappear beyond the walls on the girls' hallway, and for the first time, it was her that was leaving him, and not the other way around. Then, the boy finally understood how utterly crushed the girl had been each time he had left her.

***

Tom Riddle had been tossing and turning around all night, his dreams a never-ending series of onyx eyes and raven locks that moved through the breeze of spring. Whenever he closed his eyes, Varya's face was the first thing that he saw, and he felt almost as if something was smothering him.

Words. Unspoken words were strangling him to the point where he could not sleep, and he knew there were things that he should have told the girl, yet he had not done so out of concern of making her stay.

But now that her departure was imminent, they constricted around his esophagus and squeezed, then clogged his air pipes as they tried to plummet from his lips and seek out the witch. Tom pressed his hand against his mouth and cleared his throat, trying to push back the sensation, yet it remained there.

He clutched his duvet tightly, staring at the ceiling as he ran a hand through his bed hair, and then yawned loudly before grabbing his pocket watch from the dresser and checking the time— barely past three in the morning. The day that Varya Petrov would be making her departure from Hogwarts.

Riddle tossed his blankets aside, then let his feet touch the cold stone and sneered at the sensation against his soles. Regardless, he grasped a pair of shoes and threw on his Slytherin robe before opening the door to the Common Room and marching down the stairs.

The only person standing in the room was Elladora Selwyn, who had her body thrown over the couch, cascade of fire falling off of one of the ends while her feet dangled on the other, and a glass of wine was in her hand as she held in dangerously close to tipping. The other hand, however, had the prefect badge against the dim light of the fire, and she twirled it in her fingers feverously.

"Why are you not sleeping?" inquired Tom, although he did not care much for it besides his curiosity. He took a seat on one of the chairs opposite her, and Selwyn clicked her tongue against her cheek in disapproval.

Weakly, she pushed her body halfway up, forest eyes locking with marine, and then she gestured to the stairs that led to the girl's dormitory, "You try sleeping in the same room where you grew up with your now deceased roommate."

Tom did not see the problem with that— many children at the orphanage would perish during long winter nights, when the flu would sweep through the building and take the lost souls back to nothingness. He had never lost sleep over it.

"You did not like her," Riddle reminded Elladora, and his eyes flickered back to the badge, "That symbol in your hand was one of the many reasons you hated her."

"Oh, I did hate her for it, all right? That does not mean I wanted her dead," scoffed the cherry-haired girl, "We had known each other for years, even before we came to Hogwarts, so while I might not be crying over it, I definitely feel—"

"Haunted?"

"Of sorts," snarled the girl, "I half expect her ghost to appear in my bedroom and choke me in my sleep. Make me swallow this stupid badge or something akin to that. Varya did a ritual before bed though— checked for traces of her spirit, but she said she had passed through."

At the mention of the Eastern girl's name, Tom's eyes snapped back to the staircase, and his eyelashes fluttered in wonder.

"She went to sleep with Della," stated Elladora, sensing the question in his mind.

"I did not ask."

"You did not have to," replied the witch, then sipped on her wine calmly, ignoring the murderous glare that Tom was sending her way. Her hand went to her earlobe subconsciously, and she felt the rugged texture where Avery had once cut it at Riddle's command.

Regardless, the girl was too hot-tempered to be as submissive as the rest of the boys, and although most of the time she slithered through their words and twisted things in her favor without anyone noticing, Riddle had an affinity for sensing when someone was dishonest.

"She was upset when she came to the room," continued Selwyn, playing with fire as she irked her leader, "Well, that would be expected considering the circumstances, but there was more to it— heartbreak is quite the obvious color on a girl our age. You sure did your number on her Riddle."

Tom continued to glower at his follower, almost wishing he could reprimand her for her insubordination. Yet, the sensation of suffocation came back, and so he pushed himself to his feet and stormed out of the room, completely ignoring Elladora's pleased smirk as he wandered away.

As he strolled around the hallways, he pressed his palms against his face in an attempt to temper the burning sensation, his feet automatically moving towards the Salon, and Riddle tried to rip apart at the threads that kept his soul together. He wanted to unleash his fury, yet the agony of losing Varya suppressed any other feeling.

When he shouldered the door open to the Ravenclaw Salon, he half-expected the witch to be there, and his chest twisted with repulsive frustration when he did not see her face. Tom had never been so disgusted with his behavior, and he wanted to curse himself for allowing such weakness to invade his system.

Because now, he only ever thought of her, he only ever cared for her; he only ever glanced at her. It was so unfamiliar, so foreign, almost as if he was the one that had welcomed a parasite into his body, and it was spreading its poison through all of his organs, having them fail one by one until Tom Riddle would no longer be the man he once was.

The worst part of it? Tom could not bring himself to cure it. It was as if he had become some sort of lunatic, a masochist that relished in his own destruction as the disease spread through his bonemarrow and devoured his saneness. There should have been spells to combat such feelings, to break bonds as theirs, yet he had never bothered researching them.

The reasoning behind it was simple— in his own twisted way, he wanted Varya to be his, and he knew that if he pushed the only humanity he had in him away, that would never be a possibility. At the same time, he loathed how weak it made him feel—mortal, above all— and his eyes dashed around the room in confusion as he tried to understand such conflict.

There had to be some universe in which his affection for Varya and his creation of chaos could co-exist, where one did not have to annihilate the other, and they could entangle in the momentum of catastrophe.

He would be damned if such suffering would be his burden alone to face, and whatever curse the bloody witch had placed on him, Tom would ensure that it haunted her to her metaphorical grave.

Words continued to clog his being, and he clawed at his throat as veins rammed against his skin, and with a dizzy head, he plucked out the journal from his robe and ripped out one lonesome page. Then, he placed a quill on it, and he scribbled fiercely as his mind finally broke against its rusted lock of seclusion.

***

"You should try to sleep," whispered Felix in the darkness, tired eyes darting to both of his friends as they stood on Della's bed. He had taken the floor, as Beauchamp's roommates had ceded the room to the trio, but had been very clear about nobody using their beds.

"I cannot," replied Varya, then twisted herself until her head almost hung off of the bed, and she gazed at her friend with an empty stare, "We are both leaving in a few hours, and it feels wrong— it feels abrupt, and I cannot imagine a life outside of those walls, away from—"

"From Riddle?" quipped Felix, and he felt the fabric of a pillow as the girl threw it at his face, "Of course, I understand that."

"And the fact that she still has two years left," mumbled Varya as she glanced at Della, who was frowning deeply in her sleep, "We are all going our own ways."

Parkin stayed quiet, a soft sigh leaving his lips. He stood up, then rested his back against the wall, and let his head fall against the cold stone. It did seem surreal, and almost unfair, especially for the younger witch whose hand had been forced by others.

"Has Scamander told you where you are going?"

"No," she confessed, "And with Dumbledore's task, I believe that I will not accompany him as much as I had intended to."

Felix nodded, then slowly got up to his feet. Eyes dancing around his room, he smirked before dashing to where Della was sleeping and then tried shaking her awake. The girl's eyes snapped open immediately, and her body shot up in bed as she clutched her chest with fear. Panic eyes darted around the room, and she only loosened up when Felix placed a comforting hand on her back, encouraging her to breathe slowly.

"What is it?" she asked suddenly, dragging her feet to the floor, and she accepted the boy's hand as he raised her to her feet. They stood by each other closely, and Della's soft eyes snapped to his, where the terrible affection swam with sincerity, and the girl had to take a step back to collect herself.

Ever since their kiss, her skin had tingled whenever he touched her, yet the world had shifted, and now there was no place for Felix in her heart. It would be too dangerous for her to associate herself with him, not when Grindelwald already had one man that she cared for, not when she had already betrayed her friends so profoundly.

Hurt flashed across the boy's eyes, but he flickered it away with dark eyelashes, and then he forcefully smiled at his two friends, "Well, there is no point in sitting around and not doing anything! Come up, come around— our last night at Hogwarts should not be so gloomy."

So he grabbed their hands and forced them out of their room, not even regarding that they were all in their sleepwear, or that their feet were bare against the cold titles. The Parkin boy pulled the two girls across multiple hallways until they stood at the entrance of the Great Hall.

He yanked his wand out, and with the smallest gesture, he unlocked the doors and stepped inside, revealing the darkened chamber. His arms rose upwards, and every candle flickered alight with vigor as Felix walked down the center of the room— it was easy to forget that he was brilliant, and as Head Boy, he had magic that most only dreamed of.

Once he had revigorated the salon, he turned to the two girls, and in his eyes twinkled joviality that Varya had not seen since before the spring break. He pulled off a button from his shirt, then threw it in the air and transfigured it into some sort of violin.

"Parkin, get back here!" exclaimed Della, eyes darting to the hallway, "Someone will surely catch us. What if the caretaker finds us? Do you want to face Apollyon Pringle's cane?"

As if on cue, one head snapped over the frame of the door, glancing inside with intrusiveness. Maxwell Nott grimaced as he watched the three students stand in the center of the room, and clicked his tongue against his cheek when he observed the Head Boy charm the violin to play an idle melody, snapping his feet to the rhythm and twirling with bare soles on the Slytherin table.

"A party?" rang a voice behind him, and then Nott found himself to be pushed inside by Nicholas Avery. The eyes of the latter twinkled with misbehavior before he darted down the middle path of the tables and greeted an overly cautious Della and an amused Varya.

Maxwell sighed in displeasure, then marched into the room and cast a silencing charm around the perimeter, ensuring that nobody would be able to find them unless they were specifically searching for them.

"Petrov, I heard you are to leave in a few hours," announced Avery, throwing a hand around the girl's shoulders and dragging her to one of the tables, where he hopped on and then extended an arm to her, "Did not even care to say goodbye? Hurtful! But I will take one dance as an apology."

Varya crossed her arms in exasperation, not understanding how everyone could pretend that there was room for any celebration. But then, she glanced at Nicholas' face, and something odd struck her in her soul.

When they had met, he had been ferocious. He had disliked the witch endlessly and had done everything in his power to ensure that she would stay away from the group, even going as far as poisoning her for Riddle's benefits. Avery had appeared, at first, to be a very withdrawn person. He rarely spent time with the rest of the group out in the open, much preferring to hide in the darkness and lurk around like an enigmatic assassin. Yet, as soon as Varya had shown him that she was worthy of his presence and time, a matched adversary in viciousness and cunningness, he had undoubtedly opened up more.

Nicholas Avery was relentless, a legionnaire of dark magic, and even as he extended a hand with allure and sophistication, Varya could still feel the fumes of metallic that radiated from then, and no matter how much the boy cleaned his skin, it would always taste and smell of the gore he had spilled.

However, Nicholas Avery was also an honorable man, who had always stood by those he cared for, and had protected them against the cruelty they would have faced otherwise. In some twisted way, he was a paternal figure to the group and had always taken on the burden of murder to lessen the darkness of the Knights' souls. A trickster in his rightfulness, and with a tongue so vulgar it made maidens gasp, Avery had become a mess of sharpness and spikes to shelter the friends he had grown up with.

"Very well," the witch sighed, then cradled the margins of her dress as she rose up on the table, the feeblest smile on her lips as she let the boy twirl her around before pulling her close, "Hands above the waist."

Avery smirked, then leaned in to whisper in her ear, "Of course, would not want Riddle to cut them off, would I?"

Varya scoffed, then rolled her eyes and struck the boy gently over the arm, earning a snigger from him. They moved rhythmically to the tune, smiling as the wooden table creaked underneath their feet, and with each turn, her heart grew heavier at having to leave in such a short time.

"Rosier told me that Grindelwald was behind Ivy's murder," the lie slipped through his lips so easily he almost believed himself, and while Ren had announced that Varya no longer blamed the Knights, they had all known the true motive behind the girl's death, "You must be delighted that Tom was not the one doing the killing, for once."

The witch frowned at his distasteful humor— she could not join in on his jest, not when regardless of who had done it, Ivy was still dead, "I suppose so," she said dryly as Avery continued gliding with his hands on her waist.

His eyebrows furrowed, and then he lowered his voice, and said in a severe timbre, "He will pay. Lopheus and Trouche will both be avenged one way or another, and their deaths will not be in vain."

Of course, how could the girl have forgotten that he had lost a dear friend to the Alliance just as she had? And while the circumstances were different, and the amount of resentment was not proportional, Nicholas had experienced such pain before.

"Does it get easier?" Varya inquired, and the violin stopped playing for a second as the tune changed. They took that moment as an opportunity to sit down, faces morose as they watched Felix pester Della and Nott into joining him on the Slytherin table, "Knowing that Lopheus died— did it ever get easier?"

"No," Nicholas replied truthfully, "Not until I find the person that did it and rip their throat out. Not until I see the Daily Prophet announce that the Alliance has crumbled."

Varya nodded to that, and then gazed at the boy, "I am sure you will find the person that was responsible."

"Damn right, I will," growled the boy, and his bright eyes lit up with absolute sinister fury, "They will show their face eventually— killers always come back to their crime scene. And when they do? I will make sure they suffer as much as he did."

Tactunity fell over them— the comfortable sort— and Varya was glad for it. She had not had much of it lately, not since her Horcrux had formed. With that thought, she clung to her necklace, and her chest squeezed as she thought back to Riddle. No. Enough of that— he had made his choice with his silence, and she could only accept the truth that the boy did not care for her departure.

To distract herself, the witch glanced at Maxwell Nott, who had succumbed to peer-pressure and was now awkwardly trying to follow Felix's dancing steps, his stiffness earning the slightest giggle from Della Beauchamp. He was the only Knight the muggle-born had ever felt slightly comfortable around, and even when he had shown up at her door, demanding that she follow him, the boy had not been as aggressive as the rest of them.

Maxwell Nott, when Varya had first met him, had been the stillness of the night, a person that hid behind the cover of a book to avoid striking conversation with strangers. She still remembered the first time they had sat together in the Great Hall, when he had not even introduced himself, too busy reading the Daily Prophet to acknowledge her presence.

Somewhere along the way, the boy had somewhat come out of his shell, to the point where he could dance on the table with Felix Parkin and have a ghost smile on his lips. He had stepped up during their confrontation in the Forbidden Forest, and despite the fact that the Knights had never failed to remind him that he was not a warrior, he had tried to help them with his magic.

But above all, Nott had learned that his worthiness did not stem from Tom Riddle's approval, but rather from his undeniable intellectual capacity and resourcefulness, and he did not have to compete with the rest of the Knights, nor with Varya, to prove himself— he only had to continue using his bright mind to unsolve the mysteries that they faced.

Eventually, the Sun began to rise, and phoenix feathered rays clashed against the high windows of the Great Hall, dancing on the glass surface as they passed through it and caressed the faces of the young students. Nott helped Varya hop off the table, and Felix hoisted Della up from where she had fallen asleep on one of the benches, carrying her bridal style out into the hallway.

With a bittersweet feeling, the Eastern witch approached her two Ravenclaw friends, and Della slightly raised her head from Felix's chest to turn watering eyes to her friend. Her feet touched the ground, and she clashed against Varya as she embraced her greatly, comprehending that only fate knew when they would see each other again.

"I am so sorry," the younger witch cried, clutching her chest that had once held a golden heart, now cracked by the heat of Hell's fire, and her apology carried a nuance neither Varya, nor Felix, would understand.

The Slavic girl squeezed her petite body back, "Nothing to apologize for, Della."

The girl made no comment— she did not explain that there were, in fact, many things that she should have apologized for. Not when Avery and Nott were standing in a corner, watching her with falcon eyes as she wiped her runny nose and blinked away the tears.

She cared for Varya, she truly did, and regardless of her past actions, Della wanted to be there for her. But for now, all she could do was help the Knights outwit Grindelwald, and after all, the girl did not know half of what Petrov had gone through.

"I just," she began again, patting her eyes dry, "It will be appalling here without you...without the both of you, really. And who will I sneak into the kitchens with? I feel as if everyone is moving on, and yet here I am, suffocating and stuck in the same place."

"We are not leaving you behind, darling," replied Felix from behind her, then approached the two witches and encompassed them both in a tight hug, "We will write to each other, we will keep in touch no matter where we end up."

"Exactly," encouraged Varya, grabbing Della's shoulder and smiling at her brightly.

"When all of this is over, we will be a proper family. You'll see," quipped Felix, yet his words resonated through the three classmates, and they glanced at each other with compassion in their eyes.

Then, one by one, they placed their hands over each other, and at that moment, a promise of time and faith had been struck— they would all see each other again.

***

Ivy's bed was still undone from the last morning she had woken up. Her belongings had been packed up in boxes, yet her parents had left them all in the room, too grief-stricken to carry them back to their manor.

Varya stood in her corner of the room, onyx eyes trailed on the empty bed, and it all felt so wrong. It felt as if part of her life had been outrooted and taken from her, as if there was something missing from her soul, and she could not just bring herself to accept the fact that Ivy was truly gone. It was an odd sensation— the fact that she could never talk with her friend again, that she would never be able to attend Slughorn's celebrations with her roommate.

Losing someone— it never quite healed, not the right way. It was akin to breaking a bone and letting it heal naturally, and while on the outside it appeared the same, the mechanics were never right. And with people so young, it was even more of a tragedy.

"I could not sleep in here either."

The raven-haired girl turned around to face Elladora Selwyn, who sat in the door frame with her head hanging on the wooden part, and miscellaneous eyes were dancing across the multitude of boxes with despondency Varya had never seen them carry before.

"Where were you, then?" inquired Varya, and she observed the posh witch move across the room with elegance even in her disheveled state, hands scurrying to pull her locks in a tight bun.

Elladora threw herself on the bed, yet her face refused to turn to the empty corner of the room, where shadows swirled with decadence, and even light seemed to fear it, "Malfoy let me use Riddle's bed since he never came back to the Common Room."

That certainly got Varya's attention, "Where did he go?"

The red-haired witch shrugged, her mind somewhere else altogether, and then her eyes seem to focus as she glanced at Varya's packed trunk. She had not expected the feeling of melancholy to encompass her soul, yet her eyes lacquered over with despondency as they darted back to her roommate's face.

She had detested Varya at first. The moment she had seen her at the Slytherin table during the Sorting Ceremony, Selwyn had resented the girl without a substantial reason. There was something in how she walked, as if cut from a rough stone, and how she dressed that just made her seem so foreign, so peculiar.

Elladora had been taught since an early age that there were specific ways girls were supposed to act, always prim and proper, an amalgam of perfume and refinement that, to the teenage girl, screamed of nouveau riche. The war had slightly altered the perception of femininity, with many women taking on a more prominent household role with the absence of their husbands. Yet, young witches were still educated to be feminine, respectful, disarming.

But the heir had never intended to do so. She was very much aware that her constitution did not allow her to overpower men physically, yet manipulating them seemed to come easily, and soon enough, she had found herself using the stereotypical behavior of an interbelic woman to attain her needs— flutter her eyelashes, smile gently, flick her wrist— and men were at her feet. Nevertheless, her core was rougher, greedier, and she wanted to prove that she could stand amongst men and still be brilliant and assertive.

Her parents had never allowed her to be anything but a proper-lady, and they had been very severe about it growing up, but Varya? She had the freedom that Elladora had always wanted, the roughness that made men like Tom Riddle and Icarus Lestrange respect her, and that was so utterly infuriating to the rogue witch.

Even so, over the couple of months they had spent together, Elladora had come to appreciate Varya's abrasiveness, and had understood that there were many layers to the girl. Indeed, her freedom had come at a great price, and there was nothing to envy of the witch's situation. More so, Selwyn had been glad to have another girl on the team, even if only by association, and had started liking the Eastern witch. More importantly, Elladora respected Varya, and that was not something that was easy to earn.

"I cannot believe you are also leaving," confessed the red-haired girl, sighing deeply as she pursed her lips in discontent, "I am not one for emotions, nor sappiness, but I have to admit, Petrov— I will miss that terrible accent of yours."

"Sod off, Selwyn," rasped Varya, although her lips carried a wan smile, and she revived the early days of the year when the girl had been the one she had considered to be her closest friend. How odd it all seemed now, to think that their relationship had oscillated so much. She was unsure if she could call Elladora a friend, yet there was an unspoken bond between the two.

"Sincerely, who will knock me out with their dagger?"

"Oh, so you know about that?" quipped Varya as she packed her boots in a box before stuffing it inside her trunk, and Elladora scoffed.

"I woke up in the snow with a nasty bruise on my temple. Now, there are only two people who carry around daggers like a bunch of lunatics, and Avery happened to be taking his sweet nap at the time," she replied acoustically, then changed her timbre, "With you and Ivy gone, this room will certainly feel empty."

"I am sure they will assign you new roommates to poison and terrorize."

Elladora smirked, "Yet they will be no match for me, not as you were," her answer was sincere, almost flattering, "I am not sure when I will see you again, but I do wish for it to be during better times."

There was a soft knock on the door, and they both turned to face one of the older Slytherin girl, who informed Varya that the carriages had pulled outside. The Eastern witch nodded, then hauled her trunk upwards and dragged it to the door.

"I will leave you to it," declared Elladora, and then she strolled out of the room and left the Eastern witch to have a moment to herself.

Her darkened eyes trailed the chamber, glancing at every detail she had come to memorize over the past few months— the way the window above Ivy's bed had a small crack near the edge, and on stormy nights it kept the girls awake as the Lake slammed against the glass with more vigor, making them wonder if it could break; how the chandelier in the middle had a few parts missing from when Ivy had thrown a pillow at Elladora in anger for borrowing her clothes without asking, or the way Varya's bed was more raised than the rest because it had been replaced after her Obscurus had broken it during a terrible nightmare.

She still cherished the first day the Slytherin emerald had danced on her face after Tom Riddle had escorted the transfers and first-years to their dorms, his stature imposing and his timbre laced with allure, yet Varya had sensed the way darkness crawled around him as spiders in the dusty corners of their Common Room.

There would surely be a lot she would miss, and leaving Hogwarts would hurt more than her departure from Scholomance had, yet the future called for her bravely, and the witch knew it was time to move on. So, she grabbed the handle of her luggage and stepped into the hallway, gazing inside her dormitory one last time before she let the sturdy door fall closed.

She walked downstairs, where a few of her classmates said their goodbyes despite never bothering to talk to her much, and she nodded shyly before stepping out into the vast corridors and marching up the stairs to the Main Entrance.

Albus Dumbledore stood there, brown vest wrapped tightly around his chest, and his robes hung to the ground as he waited for her to approach. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he stood with his chin held high, a glorious and renowned sorcerer.

"Good morning, Varya," he greeted before opening the door for her and leading her to one of the carriages that stood out front, "I expect that Newton will meet you right as you arrive in London. I have informed him of your task, and he has assured me that he will give you the means to achieve it. You will be staying at a secluded location that he will guide you to, and you can begin tracking down the Hallows there."

Varya nodded reluctantly, then glanced at the Hogwarts Towers as they clashed against the tangerine horizon, flocks of birds soaring past their impressive heights before plunging in the air and twirling in a swirl of feathers. Then, she turned to her Professor, and replied to his statement, "How will I be able to reach you if needed?"

The sorcerer frowned, then patted the Thestral that was dragging the carriage, who had grown restless in Varya's presence, "Hogwarts will, unfortunately, be off-limits for the time being. With Grindelwald's advances, I have discussed with Headmaster Dippet that it be best we close our gates to any visitors. However, I believe that Newton, Tina, and I will be meeting regularly to assess your progress and Gellert's move," he stated, then nodded, "You will not be alone. I have assembled a team that will help you fulfill your task."

"A team?" inquired Varya, flabbergasted at the notion. She had thought that she would face everything alone, yet it seemed as if Dumbledore had had something else in mind.

"Certainly, you did not believe you would be doing this alone. That would be unheard of— not even I would carry such a task singly, and with Gellert's intent of capturing you, it is safer for you to be surrounded by competent people," he hoisted an eyebrow, almost as if he could not believe the girl had thought him cruel enough to give her such a heavy burden to shoulder simply.

"But, who could help me? I do not understand."

"For the past few months, the Scamander brothers have been working tirelessly to create an Order of extraordinary young witches and wizards— a collection of peculiar magic holders, such as yourself, who have devoted their unusual powers to fight against the Alliance. From all over the world, they have come to ensure that magic will remain a secret, and believe me, they are of all sorts. Their magic is unlike anything you have ever seen, and I believe you will fit right in."

The girl was at a loss for words, and Dumbledore took that moment to raise one hand in the air, and wave someone down. Footsteps echoed through the empty garden, and then a boy with light hair and a radiant smile threw his luggage in the carriage— Felixius Parkin.

"Felix, are you not supposed to be by the boats already? The ceremony should start any minute, and we have already said our goodbyes," began Varya, yet the boy shook his head.

He gave her a sincere smile, then threw an arm around her shoulders before dragging her to the carriage and hopping on it, "Surely, you did not believe you would be doing this alone, right Petrov?"

Her soul fluttered with gratitude, and light burst through her being as she watched him with teary eyes, "You mean to tell me—"

"Once I explained to Professor Dumbledore why my presence would greatly assist you on your journey, he understood that partnership is a vital part of success, and only so he allowed me to accompany you," Felix answered as he stood upon the seats, his hair ruffled by the spring wind as he glanced down at her with adventure in his eyes.

The girl grabbed his hand; then, she was brought up onto their vehicle as the two friends embraced each other in a promise of security and understanding. Their friendship was proof that time did not matter when it came to soul bonds, and unity like theirs had been crafted by the most loyal angels of Heaven.

"What about your Quidditch practice? And Della, she will—"

"I explained to my parents that I have been recruited to work under Professor Dumbledore for another year or two until I gain enough experience with my magic, and after a demanding letter from him, they had no choice to agree— Quidditch will be there for me whenever I decide to return, but I cannot play in a destroyed world, now can I?" he quipped, then continued, "As for Della, she will be our eyes and ears at Hogwarts. I informed her of the situation as much as I could, and she seemed to take it pretty well."

"You are unbelievable," gasped Varya, yet her beam was extended to her eyes, and for the first time in months, it shined regardless of the spirit's magic in the Rosier forrest.

Dumbledore moved towards the carriage, then gave them both a nod of acknowledgment, "I wish you the best," is all he said before he turned around and left for the castle, his shoes clicking against the stone floor before he disappeared behind the doors.

Varya shifted to Felix once again before giving him a grateful smile. They sat down in the carriage as he continued to stroke the Thestral, assuring it of safety, before the carriage started moving across the grass-covered ground, taking them further and further away from Hogwarts.

"Wait, Varya!"

They turned to see Abraxas Malfoy by the entrance, and stopped the Thestral from advancing before the boy started moving towards them, his long legs striding and covering ground at a fast rate. Then, he stopped by the side of their vehicle, and saluted the boy before facing the witch.

"Came to say goodbye?" she asked cheekily, and Abraxas only scoffed before setting his face in a monotonous expression, eyebrows elongated and eyes slightly hooded.

"Somewhat," he explained shortly, before reaching to his pocket and pulling out an envelope, "He asked me to give this to you."

"He?" questioned Varya, yet when Abraxas gave her a knowing look, she understood very well what it meant— Tom Riddle had one last thing to say to her before she left Hogwarts. "He could not just come and give this to me himself?"

"You know he likes—"

"Delegating, yes," she cut him short, eyes blazed with fury and hurt, "Only ever when something is not important for him enough to do."

Malfoy shifted on his legs, then his eyes skimmed back to the castle and upwards. Varya followed them, and that is when she saw them— standing on one of the balconies, the Knights had gathered to watch her carriage take off. Her eyes immediately fell to the envelope, refusing to catch Tom's gaze.

"I do not—" Abraxas began, and then gestured weakly to the envelope, "Sometimes people do not face things they fear."

"Why would he fear this?" the girl scoffed, then shook her head, "You know what, nevermind. I am glad you stopped by, and it is quite funny that you are the last one I say goodbye to."

The wizard raised an eyebrow, "How come?"

"Because you were the first one I met," Varya smiled bitterly, her heart twisting as melancholy set in, "On the train, you were the first person I came across. And now you are the last one I say goodbye to. It feels as if I have come full circle."

Life worked in such peculiar ways, and indeed Abraxas had been the first Knight she had encountered, although at the time she was unsure of his ties to Tom. He had called her filth for her assumed bloodline, and had been inquiring about her origins to report back to Riddle undoubtedly.

Indeed, the first one she had spoken to— yet the one she knew least about, because if there was anything that would stand true about Malfoy even against time, it was that he was a man of silence, who never showcased his true intentions. And that made him dangerous above all, a boy with such raw force and talent that he had been recruited first by the future Dark Lord, and had acquired a seat by his right side. Malfoy— loyal, cunning, secretive— and a person who undoubtedly still had a lot of change to undergo as the most stubborn Knight.

The girl glanced in his periwinkle eyes, the way they contrasted against his signature platinum hair, and he stood against the scenery with long robes that he wore unlike any other student. The most powerful family in the British society, some would say, and the heir was a representation of that with the determined look that was always etched to his face, the sharp eyebrows that contoured eyes of resolve, and his prideful glow.

"I suppose so," he said, always a man of few words, a mystery in Varya's existence, and the girl wondered if she would ever have time to honestly figure him out, "Until next time, Petrov."

She smiled, "Until next time."

He saluted both of them, then turned around gracefully and marched down the garden as a monarch would in his own court, because even when Riddle would rule the world, Malfoy would still rule the upper-society.

The carriage began moving again, and Varya fell back into her seat with a soft sigh, knowing that her heart would always call Hogwarts her real home, where she had found out her identity and her true self. Her hands grasped the envelope yet again, and she gawked at it with uncertainty, her abdomen twirling with anticipation and dread, a homogenous mixture where nothing could be distinguished; however, everything exploded with a buzzing sensation.

"Well," began Felix, "Open it!"

She shot him a look, and then with a shaky hand, she pulled at the sigil, unclasping it fastly and pulling out a piece of paper that was marked in cursive writing. It went without a doubt who it belonged with, and every twirl of the letter screamed Tom Riddle's charm and wickedness, so she trailed a soft hand over the beginning, trying to find the courage to read it.

Varya glanced upwards towards the castle, where seven figures stood on one balcony, their robes swaying in the wind as they fenced their leader, imagery of authority and majesty unlike any other— the seven devils themselves.

Elladora Selwyn, the infamous poisoner, who relied on her intelligence to undermine men and women alike, and was as ardent as the blazing sun in the harvest sky, the accurate representation of self-reliance and the malevolent personification of red. Her hair blew in the wind as cherry lips pulled in the faintest smirk, and viridescent eyes dazzled with the suaveness of a true femme fatale.

Nicholas Avery, the assigned hitman, the one whose hands had mastered the craft of almost every weapon known to man, and drank red wine merely because it reminded him of how easily blood was spilled. A man of instability and macabre tendencies, that danced with shadows as he stealthy sneaked behind his adversaries before slicing their throat in a quick count.

Maxwell Nott, the archivist, the brain behind the sinister doings of the Knights, who worked nights to no end to uncover the mysteries they faced in every lunar cycle— a detective, a philosopher, an encyclopedia of all kinds of knowledge. His uniform, as polished and pressed as always, was the only armor he had ever needed, because his mind was as powerful as any sword.

Icarus Lestrange, the strategist, and duelist, who despite his constant heedless behavior, had a mind that whined like the engine of a well-oiled tank, and constructed the most devious plans of attack. Someone who even the Knights themselves feared in battle, as he was the antithesis of his usual character, which made him a nuclear catastrophe.

Renold Rosier, the socialite, a boy who had hidden his dark desires between a charming face and a fast-talking mouth, who twirled women and men alike on his slender fingers, always knowing what to say and how to do it. The charmer, the swindler, almost as if he played them like puppets and extracted information directly from their brain after one too many glasses of champagne.

Abraxas Malfoy, the prideful right-hand, a mysterious being that, much like a snake, hid in the tall grass of the prairie and assaulted with fervor in moments of vulnerability. He was an enigma of proportions, and his reticence made him impossible to understand. Ruthless, vindictive, prejudiced, yet with the appearance of a charismatic aristocrat. He was one you would least expect to stab you in the back, and that made him the perfect right-hand.

Lastly, Tom Riddle— the one who owned all, the curator of traits and vices, who commanded over his followers with an imperial way of leadership. An authentic portrait of artistic beauty, or a piece of literature that even Oscar Wilde would be fascinated with, Tom Riddle was a charmer and a conniver. His psychology, an intricate maze of darkness and trauma, was the absolute constitution of an idealistic villain, who saw himself as the righteous defender of wizarding supremacy.

Unlike his followers, the Dark Wizard was only ever made of the same substance that composed a black hole— nothing, and yet everything. And similar in nature, he was a paradox that not many could perceive, a silent threat of time and space. When he struck, it was chaotic, catastrophic, and his victims became a whisper in the wind as he dried his bloodied hands with a dainty handkerchief, then returned to the carefully crafted imagery of perfectness and gallant behavior.

Even now, as he gripped the balustrade of the balcony, Tom Riddle watched over the horizon with entitlement, as a ravenous emperor that believed the world belonged to him, and his hair fluttered in the wind as it lashed against his face, exposing Adonic beauty to the light. His jaw, crafted from marble much like a Greek statue, set in irritation, and his azure eyes twinkled with turmoil as he gazed at Varya Petrov.

He saw it in her lips first, the way they downturned slightly as her eyes read the last letter he had sent her, and then her delicate hand covered her mouth as sobs began to rattle her petite body. Tom could not see her eyes, the carriage had taken her too far, yet he knew what emotion they carried.

His own chest radiated with heartbreak, and the agony triumphed over every emotion he had ever felt. It should not have hurt like this, it should not have been so utterly devastating to watch the one woman he cared for walk away, and his throat constricted as his hands gripped the railway better, trying to find stability in the ruins she had left him in.

Tom, a boy who had never felt, found himself to stand in front of a typhoon of torture, and he could not even bring himself to care as it wrecked his mind and soul, twisting it unlike anything he had ever felt before. He was such a creature of terror, a depraved being that would only ever seek his own benefit, and Varya Petrov's departure was proof of that.

And he cared. Fuck, he cared enough to let her go.

So he watched as she traveled beyond the horizon, holding a piece of him that Tom knew nobody else would ever own, and how tragic and devastating it was when the carriage disappeared from his sight, and the last breath left his lungs as his chin fell downward. His hand flew to his chest, and he gripped it tightly, knowing it would be the last time his soul would be intact, because Horcrux or no Horcrux, it had been shattered unlike anything before.

Elladora gazed at his figure from the corner of her eyes, and she knew. All of them knew, really. Tom Riddle was not the boy he had been at the beginning of the year, and change had settled into all of their souls regardless of whether they accepted it or not.

So she did one last thing. One last thing to make sure that no matter what would happen in the end, Varya Petrov would always be someone that would be connected to them.

"Death Eaters," she announced, then felt all men glance at her with an odd look. She grabbed one of her small potion knives from her pouch, then engraved the symbol they all knew well into her skin, watching as rouge dripped down from the minor wound. Then, she took her wand out, and made sure to heal it enough to leave a scar, "We are Death Eaters."

_And that was only their beginning._


	59. dear varya

Dear Varya,

 _Only wisdom—desire coordinated in the light of all experience— can tell us when to heal and when to kill_. I am unsure whether such words bring back any memory to mind, yet I know the exact date when I read them to you in the Hogwarts Express. I did not understand, then, why they made me so profoundly uncomfortable, almost as if Will Durant had plunged a cold, rotten hand into whatever ruin was left of my soul and twisted it.

Philosophy, the actual string behind the art of manipulation, had only ever been a ladder to the human mind, one I had to climb to understand the heights I would have to go to so that I could conquer even the steepest mountains. It never rang true to me; I never applied myself to such words because I, unlike many, have always been a master of the mental, and no great philosopher could understand the way the gears turned in my machinery.

Even so, as you fell asleep to my lecture, I found myself contemplating the words unlike I had never done before. Knowledge can tell us when to heal, Durant said, then attributed such unfathomable thought to desire, and then I knew that it was utterly ridiculous. The only cravings I had ever had were power, glory, and immortality. All only required destruction, death, and I knew that a muggle could never comprehend the way I functioned.

He made it seem as if killing was a choice, something that most people debated over, a battle of morality and desire indeed. However, I had never felt such conflict— death I ran from, but death I brought, and there was only ever one answer to my existence.

Then, I failed to kill you.

It ate me alive, and I thought my soul had grown weaker from your proximity, and so I decided the only way to rejuvenate myself was to outroot you. And if I could not kill you, then perhaps I could get you to leave. Trouche's death seemed the perfect opportunity, the ideal event to exploit, and oh, how absolutely right I was. It drove you mad, it made you unleash what Dumbledore feared most, and your luggage was by the door in a matter of seconds.

Yet, I felt no better, and soon enough, this absolutely agonizing feeling surrounded me unlike anything else. And it did not feel as if my darkness was rebirthing from its ashes. No, it felt like death. It felt as if every particle was fighting against itself, a conflict of generous proportions, and before I knew it, my hands were gripping this stupid fucking pen.

I told you I would never want you, and that is true.

But you were absolutely right when you told me I needed you.

It is so disgusting, so repulsive, and I fight against it unlike anything else. I do not want to need you, and if I could rip that part out of me and hold my heart in a bloodied hand against whatever deity decided to curse me with such weakness, I fucking would. But I cannot, Varya.

So, why am I writing this? Why am I telling you all of this if all I want is for you to leave?

Call it one last act of manipulation, something that will string you to me across infinity, the thread of hope that will connect us in misery— you, the one that wants and does not need, and I, the one that needs but does not want. Because you brought me this despair, Petrov. And I would be damned if I suffer in this alone.

I am obsessive, cruel, vindictive, all the adjectives in the dictionary that should have warned you not to come close, yet you ignored all, and now? Now, you doomed yourself and me. I have never thought myself capable of anything except hate, yet I find that I care for you, and no matter how much I swim against such current, I drown. I drown in your perfume, in your presence, in your words. So fucking suffocating.

Will Durant might have had a point when he told of choice in the matter of killing, but I will never heal you. Because you and I, we are both made of the same darkness, and I find it only fair that we both suffocate in it endlessly.

_You should have never wanted me to need you._

Until we see each other again,

Tom


	60. THE SEVEN VIRTUES

THE SEVEN VIRTUES - SEQUEL

**(available on wattpad by user thesehunprint)**

TWO DOORS OF OAK wood stood in front of her, and her soul was titillated with the haziest awareness of what lay ahead, yet the only thing she could sense was the deadness in her fingers, the way her shadows danced on the tips in calculated glints. Her eyes hurried back to the group behind her, disheveled and bewildered, and they all seemed perplexed by what had just happened.

The house itself would have been unfamiliar to anyone who had not encountered _them_ , who had not shared a meal at the same polished tables with exquisite servings and unfathomable copiousness, and even then, they might have missed the slight markings scrapped in the corners, or the sinister affinity of the atmosphere, almost as if darkness had made nest in the residence as it trailed _them_.

But the witch knew. She knew that, for a reason that she could not figure out, they had summoned her there, deep into the forests, and for the first time in months, Grindelwald was not her biggest fear. Why? Why had _he_ reached out to her after a year and a half?

With a reluctant hand, she turned the bronze handle, pushing the door as she sashayed into the chamber, and it was a scene worthy of admiration. Sacrilegious, nihilistic, blasphemous— seven devils stood in an echo of The Last Supper, holding golden goblets in their hands as their devious eyes trailed the group in front of them with sardonic simpers etched on sinful lips.

Even so, her eyes only rested on _him_ — she observed the way he stood up from his chair, different yet quite the same, and the luminosity of his cheeks had somewhat faded, yet in his eyes, there was the slightest hint of the Devil, and gone was the symphonic periwinkle, now a spectrum of marine and claret. Regardless, he remained imperially beautiful, a poem of epinician connotations, with the darkest curls and moonlight skin, and the allure of a sovereign as he stood amongst his faithful disciples.

"Well," his serpentine timber rattled, the faintest susurration with such clarity, and even after so long, it was still the zephyr of midsummer on her soul, "Delighted to have you back, darling."

And she knew it was him. It would _always_ be him.


End file.
